Son of a Bitch

So, this little son of a bitch: is peeking his disgusting mouse head out from under the closet door in my living room. It's roughly 4 feet from where I sit and type this. The supersonic mouse ridders I bought are not working -- I did read the instructions today, however, and learned that I need to move them around periodically. I'm planning on moving one right up the ass of the next mouse that shows its ugly head.

I hope that will work. But, FYI, what doesn't work? Is seeing the mouse and saying ala Charles Bronson in any of his stellar movies, "I'll kill you". Of course, I say it with that gravel-filled voice, and use a baritone that makes my chest hurt, but what happens next is not the "I give up, hit me with the broom because I deserve to die" action that I expect. Rather, the asshole mouse turns around and runs back in the closet ... for 3 seconds, and then runs out again so I can say, "I'll kill you" again. Ass. Boo. Crap. I feel like this blog, originally intended as a means to communicate with far-flung family, is turning into a record of my descent into madness. Perhaps I'd feel better if I did some online shopping. I'll let you know. Later - j.