The war has begun.
Last night I am sitting on the soon-to-be-stained-because-nothing-this-nice-lasts-forever-couch (see "couch in a box"). I am watching a rerun episode of "Two and a half men". Possibly the worst show on television that comes on before 8 PM. When did TV executives assume that a TV show with a recovering alcoholic/call-girl user and a 10 year old child would be a good idea? Plus, is it just me? or is the show concept a total rip off from the oldschool show "My Two Dads"? Remember that one? a girl moves in with two dads because the mother never said who was the real dad before she died? Same idea. Stick a kid between two men and as long as one of them is not a priest and the other is not Michael Jackson, you got yourself a hit. Of course, if you do want a show with a child, a priest and MJ, then you should pitch it to FOX. I can't imagine them turning down a reality show like that.
So I am sitting there with my own two rats. By my own two rats, I mean my two Chiuchaua dogs. These things are so small, I have seen pictures of New Jersey rats that are bigger. You could punt them like a football if you really wanted to (not that anyone would). Suddenly, I hear a noise coming from behind the oven. My dogs are the first to hear it with their bat ears. The ears are like satellite dishes (every once in a while, if they sit next to the TV and their ears are stright up just right, I get HBO for free). The dogs start barking at the oven. I already become suspicious. These dogs bark at anything....as long as its alive or eatable. So, I go to investigate. I look around and do not see much. I grab the free work flashlight I got for answering a question right at one of the "work team building" things. I flash that sucker behind the oven when BAM! I see the little sh*thead. A tiny little mouse, running from the light as if his great, great, grandmother might have been a cockroach.
I look behind the oven for a while trying to see if I can tell where he ran off to. Where his hiding place may be. I have to stop after I realize I have been leaning on the gas starters and been letting gas out slowly. In this small apartment, this can turn into a Nazi camp re-enactment real fast, so I pull back.
After a quick trip to the CVS store for mouse traps, ice cream and medicine (the other two are for the wife. I have never walked up to a register counter with an odder combination of products. I think if I would have bought matches along with it, David, the CVS clerk would have reported me to Homeland Security for possibly building weapons of mass destruction in my midtown apartment). I get home and splash some peanut butter on the trap. I know, I know. I would have assumed Cheese too, but the instructions suggested PB. When the heck did mice become so ghetto? Cheese is good food. It makes you think of French people and Italian dinners. PB makes you think of sitting at 4th grade recess next to the poor kid who never gets lunch money and instead gets PB year round (so poor, he doesn't even get Jelly with it). Are mice so ghetto now a days that they say "ahh F it. Give me some PB and I am good"?
After 45 minutes of attempting to latch the spring metal back into position and keeping it in place without snapping back (it did, atleast 6 times. Once, nearly took out the tip of my finger), I finally got the trap into a little slit between the wall and the oven. I had to put a piece of wood as well as a boot to keep the little dogs from sticking their heads in the slit to get it (yes, they are that small).
I woke up this morning and nothing. PB still there. The battle is on. I have a feeling this can become a long, drawn out process of me trying to catch the bastard. But I will not back down!
That little Ratatouille mother uker will have his head underneath my $1.50 mouse trap soon.
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