Ding Tong, the Rat Is Dead

That damn snake still hasn't died, but it sure is trying. The thing won't eat. Perhaps I've called it ugly one too many times and it's become anorexic. In truth, most people who see it say its beautiful; however, I am not ready to call something that wants to kill me attractive. At least I don't have to worry about it biting me: that would require it moving in the slightest. Plus, you know, I'm full of calories that will go straight to its non-existent snake hips, which I suppose might be what the snake is trying to avoid. In other news about pets and eating disorders, I'd like to report that Bosco, who I was previously concerned was bulimic, is now eating everything in sight and keeping it down. Ever since lil' fatty Darby came onto the scene, those two will race to devour anything.

At any rate, I no longer have it out for the snake. Most days I forget it's here, seeing as it doesn't do anything. That's not to say we're on good enough terms that I would invite it to Christmas dinner (imagine that, Mom!); besides, it wouldn't eat anything anyway. It let some poor mouse crawl around in its cage until it, uh, awkwardly (we'll leave it at that) died uneaten; I had been hoping they would become friends. Two weeks later, the snake was offered a dead rat, which he also refused. Jessica and Michael Michael tirelessly made the dead rat dance around in the hope that appearing lifelike would make it more appetizing to no avail.

While having yet another hilarious conversation in Michael Michael's room that one night in which Kline thought a song by the Jackson 5 was performed by Jonathan Taylor Thomas, I picked up a pair of tongs and played with them. I often get finicky and start playing with objects, like a stapler for example. With the tongs, I was pinching my skin, scratching my nipples, rubbing the back of my neck. I believe I was squeezing my fingers together when the topic of the snake not eating the rat came back up. All at once, I remembered that the tongs I was playing with were the ones used to dangle the dead rat around for the snake's benefit, promptly throwing them at the floor in disgust.

"I thought you knew!" said Michael Michael. "Why didn't you tell me?!" I asked, appalled. He explained that when I first picked them up, he reminded me of where they had been, and I brushed it off with a "Yeah." Though I do not remember this occurring, it is more than plausible that I was only half paying attention and brushed it off without really giving it any thought. "I thought it was weird that you were so comfortable with that kind of stuff." Right. Because deceased animals and me are tight like that - I wish I could have just rubbed my body with the carcass itself.

So anyway, in addition to AIDS, I have a serious case of BP (That's Bubonic Plague, y'all!). It's gross. Now no one's going to want to extend social invitations to me. Don't worry, I showered... the next day, I think.

I took the opportunity to lecture Michael Michael for leaving out dirty tongs. It really was his fault. Of course someone is going to play with it: Kitchen utensils make the best toys. I showed him the turkey baster I leave by my door in my room. All the time, people walk in and say, "Why do you have a turkey baster?" I often answer the inquiry differently, but the result is always the same: the visitor starts squeezing the baster, tapping it against eir wrist, and suctioning eir nipple. (Okay, I've only seen some people do the last one.) The point is I know people are going to play with it when they see it, so I make sure to keep it clean. As a good host, I'm obliged to disinfect that baster. I certainly can promise you that it's never touched a dead rat; in fact, I've never even basted a turkey with it before. My company can rest assured they have a clean baster to amuse themselves with. I mean, you can put out your best china, but you're still a lousy host if you leave out dead-rat-infected tongs on the table.