There's a Mouse in the House

"Those, my dear, are mouse turds."

Phrases you don't want to hear after having eaten a handful of something before noticing soggy, bloated pellets in the other half of the handful of something that you know are mouse turds and yet do not want to believe are mouse turds thereby demanding a second opinion of said mouse turds to solidify that they are, in fact, mouse turds.  And you just ate food marinating in mouse turds.  Happy Mouse Turd Wednesday!

First note:  Mice like spaghetti.
Second note:  I no longer like spaghetti.

At this point in the story, I am in the kitchen anticipating a lovely dinner of handmade turkey meatballs and whole wheat spaghetti, standing by the boiling pot of spaghetti delicately plucking under-cooked strands out at one-minute intervals to ensure the utmost al dente for my family. Visions of beautiful steamy plates of intertwining noodles cradling perfectly-sized juicy meatballs swimming in spicy red sauce dance through my mind as the hot rush of steam warms my face upon straining the water from the noodles.  As I put the noodles back into the pot, I look back at the strainer.  I almost didn't.  Oh, God, I almost didn't.  My heart went from normal operation to one thick super-beat.  Whatthefuckisthat.  WHATTHEFUCKISTHAT!

There they were, lodged into the strain holes.  The things that should not be.  Bloated green pellets.  My mind raced.  Did I make spinach?  Did the dishwasher fail to thoroughly clean the dish from last use?  Or do I now need to come to terms with the fact that I just contracted mouse AIDS?

I already told you how this story ends.  Well, I mean, I already told you where it stands.  Where it ends is obviously in a crippling, inevitable fit of mouse AIDS.

What makes me the most angry about this experience is that I feel guilty for wanting to kill the mouse living intermittently in my pantry. Screw Tom & Jerry, Disney's American Tale, and Rescue Rangers for making me think mice are cute.  Mice are not cute.  Mice do not wear aviator hats and sing to the moon and go on rescue missions to make your life easier.  Nothing mice do end up in cheering and moral victory.  Mice shit in your food and your mouth and ruin spaghetti dinners and make nests out of your NASA pot holder that you got from Kennedy Space Center.

Also filed under 'improbable' is the fact that dogs and mice are best buds?  The question is not how my dog would react to a mouse upon discovering one, but rather, why the fuck has he not killed it yet?  I mean yes I got him for companionship and protection and he is super cute, but come on dog, do your fucking job and eat the damn turd-maker before he ruins another meal.  

Just don't scare any more shit out of it.