Mouse stuff

There is a mouse on the loose in our office. It is so much more pleasurable to think about this little guy motoring around the carpet, maybe wearing a little tee shirt, than it is to think about terrorist attacks and Trump. Go little guy! GO! 


It is extremely important that I focus on this mouse. Maybe I'll build a series of tunnels for him. Or her. I don't know which. I don't know how the mouse identifies. Maybe I'll do a study on gender identification among rodents. Explore the subculture. Like that Runaway Ralph with the motorcycle. What was he into? 

I could set up webcams and document my time among the mice. Or my time with the mouse really. Unless there are more. A whole society. And when we leave here they're rubbing their little mouse butts all over our phones and office chairs. Or maybe they're helpful, like fairy tale elves, although I have never returned to work in the morning to find all my spreadsheets perfectly formatted or anything like that. I think mouse talents lie more in the clothing arena is what I'm saying. Your shoes, your Disney princess ballgown. That kind of thing.

Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll be savagely mauled by the mouse, and Werner Herzog will make a touching documentary about me despite my misguided attempts.

If I can just really, really focus on this for, say, the next four years? That sounds like a really good idea.

*cries*

Get Thee Behind Me, Sofa

Look man. All I want to do is get rid of a sofa. That's it.

I know it is clawed up. I know. My cats are not to be trusted. They see a sofa and they think "Sure, kafkaesque, friend to all animals, has lovingly and thoughtfully provided us with many scratching options for claw management, including but not limited to a 6 foot tall Cat Metropolis cat condo thing that was over 100 American dollars, but we prefer to destroy this couch instead, because we are cat clichés. Also do you have some yarn I could eat?"

It may have been peed on by an infant or two, this sofa. Maybe some childbarf when I was not quick enough with the bowl. Yeah, that bowl. The metal one that we use for salad sometimes. The dishwasher has removed all trace of childbarf from that bowl I swear to god. And from the sofa. That you should take.

And the time the poop actually came out of the top of the onesie like a chocolate fondue fountain at a wedding? I think that was not on the sofa, but frankly it may have been. I have wiped it from my mind. Even though I sometimes wake in cold terror thinking of elevator doors opening in the Overlook lobby and poo pouring out.

Listen, I can't even park my car in the garage because of this sofa. I loved it, it is true, when I was napping of a Saturday afternoon, a soccer game playing away on the television. But no more.

Now I hate it purely and perfectly and want it gone.

Do I have to carve this thing up with a reciprocating saw and place it daintily in the garbage can for a series of weeks? Because I will totally do that. Do I have to push it out to sea and then fire a flaming arrow at it? That sounds kind of fun but my aim is not that good so I would want to ensure the surf was completely empty, and that sounds like a logistical nightmare. And maybe my arrow hits a sea lion or something and I don't want that on my conscience.

Just take my sofa.

Legend of Zelda Update

I may have mentioned here that I downloaded the original Legend of Zelda to my daughter's 3DS recently. This was done with the wide-eyed optimism that she and I would play it together, and I would regale her with tales of that guy on the commercial saying "Octoroks!" who I kind of want to say was Howie Mandel but surely wasn't*. And she'd look up at me, as she vanquished a full screen of Peahats, knowing in her heart of hearts that she had worth as a human, that her self-esteem had been bolstered not only by this bonding with her dad, but by the clear realization that anything is possible if you just really believe. Yes, she'd look up at me, moist-eyed and say "You are the best dad."

Of course, what really happened is that she is not really even remotely interested in playing Legend of Zelda because she is seven years old and it is really unreasonably difficult. She sits next to me on the couch watching Teen Titans Go! and I run Link around like a total dickhead because I lack the sensory skills necessary to remember where the Level 1 dungeon is. And, if I make it to the dungeon, to have more than half a heart left, so I can be easily dispatched by bats. The whole thing is really an exercise in not swearing really loud in front of your kid.

And I forgot the quiet majesty of the little POOT sound every time Link gets hit.**

And how he charmingly is pushed back, possibly into another of those dog things with the bow and arrows. And that square thing that pops up in the water? You know, the one that seems to hit me every single time despite the fact that its shots don't travel all that fast? Not my favorite foe is what I'm saying.

Anyway, so far I have cleared the Level 1 dungeon and the Level 2 dungeon. Nothing in the dungeons so far is really all that difficult, except those blue guys that had the magic boomerang.

I will keep you updated.

*


** If you listen to me playing this game it would sound like this: OK, here we go... OK Octoroks, that's easy... Oh wait these guys with the POOT Ah damn, now I can't throw my POOT POOT Really? You're going to POOT POOT POOT Aaaa! BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

Puddle of Santa

Flat and empty
Belly bereft of jelly
Collapsed like a narcoleptic
Run over by a mattress truck
In some terrible coincidence
At night will you rise
Majestic
Lit from within?
Animatronic reindeer
Shaking their heads
Slowly slowly
Back and forth
Disapproving
Of your midnight
Lawn party