Elves And Fairies and VICIOUS ATTACK RODENTS, the end! (we hope)

You might have noticed that I haven’t posted anything about The Rats, or even Mr. Bojangles, my favorite footless rodent who for a while there became The Demon spawns sole reason for living. A new toy! they said. A real, live toy!

But then Paul the Rat Killer showed up and placed those little blocks of no-bake cookies around my apartment and suddenly, if suddenly is one week later, I seem to be devoid of the Rodentus Maximus and I think I may be kind of sad. They were my one claim to fame, you see. My friend Amanda expressed horror and dismay as I continued to sleep in my apartment and I took great pride in the fact that I went home every night to an apartment that could honestly and without exaggeration be referred to as ‘infested.’ I’m afraid she feared the worst for me, suspecting that the vicious attack rodents would somehow gnaw off my face in the middle of the night and I would awake to some Silence of the Lambs-esque horror.

But I know that rats can’t climb, at least that’s what I tell myself, and so I never really feared for my safety or pondered the chances of my face being ripped off piece by wee little piece because let’s be honest here, I wake up if my next door neighbor’s dog thinks about shedding a wee little piece of fur much less allowing some persnickety rodent to launch himself onto my bed and make it next to my face without me going all Mr. Miagi on it’s ass. Also, I discarded my knife in favor of a large metal hammer I found in my tool bag due to a stern self-evaluation where I realized that my knife-throwing skills were more than likely sub-par but my hammering skills were right up there with Ty Pennington. I would have said Bob Villa but that guy kind of creeps me out. Though so does Ty Pennington, especially now that he’s shelling for a phone company and I’m supposed to buy into the fact that the majority of American women want to pin his bony ass to a wall and have their wicked way with him. But me, I’d prefer to avoid being impaled by someone’s hip bone so instead I’m going to offer Mr. Pennington a cookie and remind him that indoor tanning is only for chicks.

Truly, I think I was more comfortable when I could see them because at least then I knew their exact whereabouts. Their piercing rodent screams were like an auditory radar screen; Mr. Bojangles in quadrant two! Baby Rat in quadrant four! Send in the piercing kitchen lights and stomping feet to scare them off! It was like Top Gun, without the pre-braces Tom Cruise and the really cool make-out scene that my dad used to casually flip away from while I pretended that kissing boys was wicked gross when really I was just highly confused as to why grown ass folks had to go and put their tongue in everybody’s mouth. Like, ew. So really it was nothing like Top Gun, except maybe that one scene where they all scream out things like TWO BOGEYS, no, THREE BOGEYS, no FIFTEEN BOGEYS! Sir! We’re totally screwed, sir! And then Goose dies and everybody cries a little.

So yeah, I’m totally looking forward to smelling my little rodent friends as their little souls depart their earthen bodies and leave behind their decomposing furry shells for my olfactory pleasures.