So here’s me, totally content, driving through the grocery store parking lot singing “In the Jungle.” As I’ve been known to do. In the company of friends and family on a semi-regular basis.
And here’s Napoleon Dynamite wearing a neon green reflective vest, hunched over a row of shopping carts, laboring just a bit to get them across the lot.
Have I mentioned my tendency to see things in pictures? Or as movies? This right here — this juxtaposition of awesome lyrics, “In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight” and the dynamite scene playing out right before my very eyes? Bottled sunshine.
And here I am, cracking myself up and I do whatever the opposite of snort is, which results in me unexpectedly blowing my nose. I open the glovebox looking for some Kleenex or a Wendy’s napkin or gas receipt or SOMETHING and instead find THIS.
BASTARDS. The mice, they’re nesting in my nooks and crannies. They mock me.
And I know it’s probably total karma for laughing at Napoleon, even though it wasn’t technically directed AT him, but more so the scene as a whole. If I didn’t carry a spare pair of surgical gloves for just such an occasion, I REALLY would’ve been upset.
Clearly, these mice have superpowers. Clearly, I’m going to have to consider less conventional kill methods. I’m thinking I should ask The Bloggess to mail me one of those car snakes they got down in Texas. I could stick it in the glovebox, feed it Thanksgiving dinner and borrow Grammy’s car for a week while it digests. Hell, I’d WALK to work if it meant getting rid of the vermin. In the snow. Barefoot.
Okay, so maybe not, but I’m really, really, really desperate. Really.