So that's the way you want to play it, huh?

Dear Mouse/Mice who've been lurking in the upstairs area of my house,

You creeped me out that one time by doing your pervy little peeping tom thing while I was on the toilet, but, you know, I could've let it slide. Really, I could. I was happy to let this go for as long as you could avoid the cats. And let's face it, given the stellar job annihilating your cute furry butts the cats AREN'T doing lately, that could've been a good long time, especially in mouse year.

What I'm trying to say is, it didn't have to come to this. I didn't sit down in my office planning to buy a bunch of traps which I'll smear with peanut butter and put in corners where the cats hopefully won't get at them (hardly likely, considering their ambition lately), which you'll come sniffing around and have your life come to an abrupt end. I'm a live and let live kind of guy, normally.

But dude(s).

You pooped on my desk. And for that you must pay.

What happens this weekend is on your head(s). And probably part of your spine(s).

Andrew

PS: Yes, I realize now you've probably been pooping on my desk for weeks. I'm not exactly an expert in vermin scat, you know (though apparently my wife is, as she's the one who pointed out what I thought were a couple loose grape seeds...weren't.) That's beside the point. I KNOW NOW. And my wrath shall fall upon you like a piece of metal snapping down in the dark, shattering your spine.

PPS: I EAT STUFF ON MY DESK. It's on plates, but still. Ew.