Super Mice

I think Douglas Adams may have been right. Mice are the supreme beings on Earth, and are just screwing with us humans for fun.

A day or two ago, I discovered mouse droppings in various places in my house. Naturally, I wanted to get rid of them, so I went to Target to purchase some form of mouse-genocide equipment.

Now days, they have more "humane" traps available, which are anything but. There are the sticky traps, where the mouse gets stuck in an uncomfortable position, tries to free itself and usually rips off some of its own fur and skin in the process, only to get re-stuck to it and slowly starve to death. I think I'll pass on that one, since it's probably more likely that I'll end up getting it stuck to myself at some point.

Then there are the "box" style traps, which are essentially a standard mousetrap encased in a box, so that you don't have to see the carcass. These are more expensive and obviously made for pussies. Pass.

Lastly, there is the poison. Poison sounds good because it will take it back to its little mouse family, feed it to its little mouse wife and kids, then they will all die a violent, agonizing death as the poison eats away at their stomach. But that's not all. With the poison, you have the pleasure of smelling their rotting bodies for a little while afterward. On second thought... Pass.

Considering these options, I opted for the simplest, cheapest, don't-fix-what-ain't-broke regular old wooden mousetraps. Upon arriving home, I gleefully unwrapped the trap package, eager to kill some small rodents. I spread some peanut butter on the trap, and attempted to set it. This sort of process invariably results in at least one misfire, and in this case, it launched the dollop of peanut butter onto Elizabeth's toes. After a couple more attempts to set up the trap just right, I placed two armed traps at various high-mouse-traffic locations (as indicated by the larger quantities of mouse-poop). I then left the traps set and went to bed, laughing myself to sleep like a deranged scientist sociopath.

This morning I dashed over to the living room to check the mousetrap behind the end-table, and that's when I discovered it. I am not dealing with any ordinary mouse. My house is infested with super-intelligent fricking ninja-mice. The bait was gone, but the trap was not tripped.

All your bait are belong to us.

Impossible!! So let me get this straight... Either the mouse sprung the trap with a stick, ate the bait, then re-set it (unlikely), or it managed to eat a dab of sticky, gooey peanut butter off of a trip-plate that would activate the trap if you breathed on it??? I feel like Bill Murray from Caddyshack! Hmm... That gives me an idea for phase 2...

Eat Until It Hurts

Why is it that every time I go to Taco Bell, my eyes are larger than my stomach?
I blame it on the variety they offer. You see, when I go to Chipotle, I know I'm only getting one burrito, because one burrito is plenty to fill me. But at Taco Bell, I need at least two items to make a dent in my hunger. No problem right? A Cheesy Gordita Crunch is only a buck forty nine.
WRONG.
Sure, you COULD by just one CGC, but you know you're going to want another one, so you order two. But that half-pound beef & potato burrito looks tasty too, so you might as well get that to eat between CGC1 and CGC2. Oh, and you didn't think you were leaving without ordering some nachos, did you?
So what ends up happening, is you leave the store (yes, store... they can't legally call themselves a restaurant because what they sell does not technically qualify as "food")... so you leave the store with your satchel full of food-like product and you go home and dig in. You have so many great flavors coming at you at once, that you can't help but shovel every last thing into your face.
At this point you are thanking God that you sprung for that extra pair of hard-shell tacos, because you're still freaking hungry after eating 6 pounds of various tortilla, meat, cheese, and sauces.
But halfway through that 17th taco, your brain finally gets the message that you're full. Apparently it takes your stomach 20 minutes to tell your brain to tell your hands to stop pushing food into your mouth. But 20 minutes is exactly how long it takes to devour 1.5 times the holding capacity of your stomach.
Mother Nature is such a bitch sometimes.

This folks, it what's known as "eating until it hurts."

Stay tuned for tomorrow's followup: "Melting Steel With Your Ass"