I don't think mousey will be doing any more nighttime scratching.
No. He's not dead.
They put bright pink plastic bags in our letter box, which we were to fill with old clothes and useless crap and leave outside for charity. 'Ah HAH!' I thought. 'Now I can get rid of those old Indian drums!'
Yes, I have old Indian drums. And only one drumstick, for some fricking reason. I received them as a birthday gift when I was convinced that my life would only be complete if I had a pair of Indian drums.
I have played them, oh, about twice since then.
I reached behind the couch and pulled them out, and something flew out with them. It hit me in the chin and then fell on the floor.
THE MOUSE! THE EFFING MOUSE!
The little son of a bitch tried to take my head off. I squealed like a girl and John came running in.
Me: [breathlessly] M-m-m... mouse.
John: Hmm.
Me: MOUSE!
John: Is this your overactive imagination again?
Ooh. John is asking for it. Since the mouse traps are virtually useless for mouse-catching, I may leave them in the bedroom doorway ready for John's early morning toes.
Mousey had been building a nest inside my bloody Indian drums. They're pretty solid, so he hadn't done much except shit and piss all over them. That same solid surface, combined with the hollow interior, meant that the scratching was being echoed around the house Every Fricking Night and driving me utterly bananas. No more! Hurrah!
We thought we had DangerMouse cornered when he ran out from under the couch, but after removing every item from the lounge room, we discovered that he had disappeared, not entirely unlike David Copperfield.
And I cannot help but think that maybe the charity people will not want my drums anymore.
(I promise I will stop blogging about the mouse as soon as it stops LAUNCHING ITSELF AT MY HEAD.)
No. He's not dead.
They put bright pink plastic bags in our letter box, which we were to fill with old clothes and useless crap and leave outside for charity. 'Ah HAH!' I thought. 'Now I can get rid of those old Indian drums!'
Yes, I have old Indian drums. And only one drumstick, for some fricking reason. I received them as a birthday gift when I was convinced that my life would only be complete if I had a pair of Indian drums.
I have played them, oh, about twice since then.
I reached behind the couch and pulled them out, and something flew out with them. It hit me in the chin and then fell on the floor.
THE MOUSE! THE EFFING MOUSE!
The little son of a bitch tried to take my head off. I squealed like a girl and John came running in.
Me: [breathlessly] M-m-m... mouse.
John: Hmm.
Me: MOUSE!
John: Is this your overactive imagination again?
Ooh. John is asking for it. Since the mouse traps are virtually useless for mouse-catching, I may leave them in the bedroom doorway ready for John's early morning toes.
Mousey had been building a nest inside my bloody Indian drums. They're pretty solid, so he hadn't done much except shit and piss all over them. That same solid surface, combined with the hollow interior, meant that the scratching was being echoed around the house Every Fricking Night and driving me utterly bananas. No more! Hurrah!
We thought we had DangerMouse cornered when he ran out from under the couch, but after removing every item from the lounge room, we discovered that he had disappeared, not entirely unlike David Copperfield.
And I cannot help but think that maybe the charity people will not want my drums anymore.
(I promise I will stop blogging about the mouse as soon as it stops LAUNCHING ITSELF AT MY HEAD.)
posted by GBE at 7:03 pm
4 Comments:
I hope mousey sticks around for a bit. I'm finding this as funny as hell!
Sorry for your inconvenience. Good blogging material but!
You think that just because you threw away Mouse's FIRST nest choice that he'll leave?
Heh heh heh.... I don't theeenk so, Seeeesco!
- M
I thought Mighty Mouse was only a cartoon! Your mouse is awesome. Don't kill him, he's inventive and clever and shit....for a mouse. :)
Having said that, i don't want him in my flat either, but i'm enjoying reading about his adventures on your blog.
Phishez, I suppose the little conniving sod would seem a bit funny from the outside, and I'll probably look back at these days and giggle, but right now HE MUST DIE. DIE HE MUST.
Michelle, I have really awful childhood mouse/rat memories. Ones that make people want to vomit. I suppose it comes from living in the country, where there were loads of the bastards in the wild, and combining the whole thing with cats and large traps.
(Not at the same time. Wouldn't want the cat to get in the trap. That would be bad.)
Marcheline, you are so, so right. I figured he might still hang around, but I was sincerely hoping he would stop scratching all night. The poo I can almost handle, but the infernal scratching? No. Oh no.
Steph, he is quite clever. He could probably earn a living as one of those circus mice, but his talent is being wasted under/inside my washing machine. If we get him alive, I'll sell him to the highest bidder.
Post a Comment
<< Home