F$%k You, Mice

Have you ever had to deal with earth’s disgusting vermin dingleberries, otherwise known as mice? The cowardly little squeaky buttholes that just decide to run across your feet while you’re cooking? Or take little pussy poops in your bed, specifically on your pillow?

 

Well, as you can tell, I have. Many times. Many, many, times. That’s because I’m a college student and I have to have roommates, and roommates make messes. Messes that little scampering fur dildos make a living off of. It’s the same story every year, the temperature drops, messes are made, and in comes Mickey and his dickhead crew.

 

Mice are just such assholes. Barging in and looking for food like it’s my problem they’re starving. It isn’t my fault you’re an incompetent little ball of nut cheese, you stupid mouse. Stop crawling on my counters and go get a job. I’m starving half the time too, but you don’t see me crawling into my neighbors house through their basement and rubbing my furry little balls all over their pillow. Learn some respect.

 

Whenever these shitbags make their way into my place of residence, I turn into a man possessed. I buy every trap the store has to offer and maniacally place them all throughout the house along their food-hunting routes that I have carefully studied. I swear and curse and challenge the freeloaders to try to outsmart me. (You know school’s going bad when this is my strongest display of intellect.) One by one the traps snap shut throughout the night as Mickey and his boys start biting the dust. I find where they are getting into the house and I toss one of their homeboy’s dead bodies at the entrance, a message to all who dare to play the game. I then leave the house to go sleep elsewhere, I don’t sleep near my enemies. It is guerilla warfare, and I can’t be beaten.

 

Things weren’t always like this though, oh, no. It took a hardened group of gang banger mice punking me nearly every day for a month to reach this level of rodent homicide prestige.

 

Back when I lived in my first college house, winter came around and food was left out. You know the drill. My roommates and I started seeing little blurry objects out of the corner of our eyes in the kitchen but didn’t think anything of it. Then, one day I’m cooking and what is for sure a mouse runs across my foot. Now I’m annoyed so I go get some traps and set them up. As I’m squatted down setting one in the kitchen, I can see a mouse watching me from under the oven. Aren’t mice supposed to be timid? Just as I move the trap closer to him (he’s still watching me, as if to say, go ahead and set that trap, pussy) another mouse runs across my foot, causing me to jump and lose my balance, putting my hand in the trap and setting it off. Use your imagination to picture how I reacted. I look back over to the oven, holding my hand, and see two mice staring at me now. Their empty little blank eyes pierce my soul, challenging me to set another. I do, in fact, I set quite a few more.

Later that night, I leave my room to get some water. I turn the light on and see a mouse scurry across the floor. It stops at a trap. I excitedly sit and watch, knowing this will undoubtedly be a checkmate. The mouse just looks at the trap, looks at me, and scurries back under the oven. I can’t believe it, and just as I start heading back to bed, a mouse crawls back out from under the oven and goes straight for the trap.  This is it for sure. I watch intently as he casually proceeds to eat the peanut butter on the trap, not dead at all. I tell myself it’s only a matter of time before it snaps shut and crushes the little scumbag, but he licks it clean. I’m in disbelief as I watch him pimp limp back to the oven. Just as he moves out of sight, another mouse rolls out and goes straight for a different trap. Guess what happens? If you guessed that he casually licked the trap clean and returned to the oven, you guessed right. I go back to bed thoroughly defeated.

 

After this humiliating situation, my roommate buys poison traps and we get a little bastard that night. We watch as he tweaks out on the kitchen floor, cursing us and vowing that his boys will avenge him. I tell him that I hope they try, and he extends his middle finger to me before passing into the abyss while “Hit ‘Em Up” by 2pac plays in the background. (This is how I remember it at least.) I look over to the oven and a little pair of eyes are watching me. Or is that two pairs?

 

The next morning, I wake up to a tickle on my foot. I quickly sit up and look around, swearing I saw something scurrying out of my room. Nah, there’s no way. Mice are nocturnal, right? I go to lay back down, when I notice something on my pillow. I look closely and realize that what I’m looking at is a little microscopic turd. A mouse turd. A tiny little token of defiance from a cunning enemy. An ode to a fallen soldier.

 

There are more stories from that fateful invasion, but I will spare your time. After the turd though, we never saw any mice again that winter. I guess they decided to leave on their own terms. Letting us know what they were capable of was enough for them. Or they had other turfs to conquer. Whatever the case may be, I always check my pillow before bed now, permanently scarred.

 

Stupid dickhead mice.