Cracking the Mousey Browns

So we're just sitting here watching the box the other night and out of the corner of my eye, I see a farking mouse!  Well, I'm hoping it's a mouse and not a rat ... but Fark!  A Farking mouse!

Now I don't wanna say I was born with a silver spoon up my arse, but I have managed to get through the first 36 years of my life without having had to deal with mice!  Sure, I've had possums, snakes, massive cockroaches and ridiculous, steal-your-baby-sized tropical spiders ... but never mice!

Makes me feel like I've failed 'cause my place is now so dirty that vermin wanna live here.  Gross man.  It's always the way; you finally give-in and get a cleaner every 2 weeks 'cause you don't have tome to live and clean, so instead of actually cleaning  a bit here and there every few days, you do absolutely nothing and let the place turn into a cesspit for 2 weeks until the cleaner comes, just so that you get your money's worth ... well, that's what we do, anyway.

So my first step in 'Operation Eliminate Jerry' was to ignore it all and hope it went away.  The next day, I find the end of an open banana gone.  Mr Belfast tells me that traps work, and that yes, they really do go for cheese, so against all my innate, animal rights sensibilities, I went and bought some traps and set 'em up with cheese.

The next day, the bastards had eaten through a plum, another banana-end and a tomato (which they carried half-way across the room in a parody of one of those old-school Disney, ants-at-the-picnic cartoons.  The cheese was untouched.

So I bite the bullet and decide that if they don't like cheese, but they eat bananas and tomatoes, I'll set the traps with that.  I also vacuumed the Begeezus out of the space behind the oven.  Since then, nothing on the traps has been touched, so I'm tipping they're either US Military-prototype Cyborg Mice with enhanced intelligence, or they've farked-off somewhere else.

Not sure which I'd prefer.  But I still feel dirty.

Cute, my arse!  This little, smug bastard was the nastiest piece of work going.  That big, fat, black lady in the stripey socks just couldn't ever see it.  Pic: http://4photos.net

Ikea – it's Swedish for "Get me the f@rk outta here!"

The only thing worse than going to Ikea on a Saturday morning, is going to Ikea on a Saturday morning ... with a mission ... with a two year old!  Throw-in a red wine induced, slightly fluffy mental capacity, and needless to say my Saturday morning was like being in labour*.

It's hell!  One spends the first 20 minutes trying to drag Hambones through the one-way-maze of display lounge rooms (which not even a tradie named Sven would have been able to produce with Ikea products alone) in an attempt to get to the bed section before he goes completely bananas and rips one of the flat screen TV's off the flimsy, artificial walls.  But all your efforts are in vain as you dive to save some Swedish, faux designer vase which has been launched off a plush display couch by your talented offspring.  This, of course, releases him from your impatience- and alcohol-induced, rigor mortis grip, amd within a heartbeat, he's halfway up a towering stack of cheap wine glasses.

By the time we did make it to the beds, we were completely shagged and more or less passed-out on the Kings while the darling cherub disappears into the bathroom section to the crash and bang of falling implements. 

I've always known that Ikea on a Saturday morning was hell – it's because irresponsible, hungover parents with kids let their monsters go berserk ... now I get it.  Have a little sympathy, will ya?

Looks bad enough with a hangover – add to it a thousand screaming children, straight in from AusKick, and see how much your $3.99 Swedish meatballs are hardly suitable compensation.  Pic: http://thecuriositiesofacollegekid.blogspot.com

  

* I know, I know – I just throw it in there to get a reaction!

Potty Mouth Blues

Talk about some bad luck this week.  A double bike puncture Friday week ago saw me having to replace both tyres, and the day after picking up the newly shod unit, one of the buggers was already flat.  With that sorted, I lasted 2 days before blowing one of ‘em, and on the first ride after that fixing, the other blew.

“Just bad luck” says the funky technician with the tied-back dreads and low-waisted hipsters.  “You would have been better off buying the more expensive tyres”.  No shit, Sherlock!

To add insult to injury, about 10 minutes before learning of this most recent flat, I nearly came a cropper of a rather aggressive, 8ft tall pedestrian who executed a hazardous runner through some stationery traffic and forced me up against the curb.  This was around midday on Saturday, through the central shopping district, and this dude hadn’t been the first during that hairy, downhill traverse to cause poor old Donkey’s adrenal gland to vamp into hyperdrive, so I gave him all six barrels of abuse, to which he responded by stretching to full height and offering his own a colourful serve of rhetoric, accompanied by a furious red face and shaking fists.

Perhaps I need to calm down a little and hold-off on disparaging remarks calling into question the sexual orientation of peoples’ mothers.

Time for Donkey to take a chill pill before jumping in the saddle.  Pic: http://bmxroots.com/?author=3