Return of the Unwanted Interns

People joke about building a better mousetrap because the mousetrap has been perfected. They’re simple, effective, cheap to make, easy-to-use, disposable and fast, sending the little critters to Habitrail heaven in less than a second on the speed of a steel hinge – they’re brilliant. Rat traps work the same, they’re just larger. For me, though, that last bit is the main problem. My better rat trap would come with torture. I want the Saw version of the rat trap, the one where the rat dies slowly and painfully – and ironically, if at all possible. Perhaps a miniature exploding jaw-trap that attaches itself when the vermin prick sticks its nasty head in there for a morsel of bait. Oh, yeah, and there wouldn’t be a way out, no key in the body of the rat beside it. The fucking rat would just die no matter what.

If you haven’t guessed by now, the rats (or maybe just rat) have returned to my office. One of them set off a mouse trap the other day and left a giant fucking turd on the floor of the lunch room – thick as a pencil and as long as a cigarette butt. Taking a more proactive approach than the poison boxes we still have kicking around, which take about six weeks to work (six weeks? Are you fucking kidding me?), I went out and bought rat traps. I’ve become the self-anointed rat killer of the office, and I’ve been trying to do it right. I set one with peanut butter, the other with chocolate (I know, I know – if that doesn’t work I’ll try the two great tastes that go great together), carefully wearing rubber gloves the whole time, as to not get human sent on them, and ever so precisely hooking the lever on the pedal without snapping the whole thing in my face. That was last night, and to my annoyance, no rat corpses this morning. I’m leaving for ComiCon early tomorrow morning, so I’m gonna be robbed of the satisfaction of seeing their dead. But as long as they die, really, I’m cool with that.

I never had nightmares about rats until they invaded my workspace, now I imagine they’re crawling on my bed in the middle of the night. When I arrive at work, I wonder if they were crawling on my desk during the night, stealing the ample press releases that reside there in order to build a nest. I wonder where the closest one is hiding or if one will dart out when I turn the light on in dark room.

I hate rats so much I can easily see past the cruel and illogical pointlessness of torturing them. In fact, I’d like to see them drawn, quartered and their shit-bulb heads placed on tiny pikes as a warning to other rats. I would kill them with zeal and unwarranted savagery. And I’d videotape the proceedings. Then I’d make a giant screen out of rat hides and I’d project my footage outside of PETA’s headquarters – for the pure vulgarity of it.

Anyone know where to purchase tiny landmines?