When I was little I was terrified of the Rat King in the Nutcracker. Every year the black and white t.v. ballet special would be aired, probably brought to us by Kraft or Chevrolet. Every year I would watch through squinted eyes while asking, "Is this where the mice come in?" It was nearly as bad as the Oz flying monkeys.
Dreamt last night I was teaching my preschoolers in one of those morphing settings, part parlor and part warehouse. Very realistic mice were scurrying out from behind furniture, crates, and plaster molding. [Who ya gonna call?] There I was in my nightgown fighting off rodents with a blow torch. I felt like Carrie Fisher in the "Blues Brothers" stuck in a mousy early Tetris version. Clara needs those nice young men in their clean white coats...
I will have to abandon my hamster designer fashion collection due to Post Rodent Stress Disorder and Mousehole Tunnel Syndrome. Can I claim the loss as a medical expense?
If any creatures are stirring, nuke 'em.
No comments:
Post a Comment