Well, time to lay off politics for a moment – although there is plenty to talk about, in particular that narcissistic moonbat Hugo Chávez’s statesmanlike performance at the UN, and the heartening domestic response in which even familiar left-wing drones such as Nancy Pelosi and Charlie Rangel paused in their bastinadoing of the C. in C. to circle the wagons. “Hey! You can’t slander the President of the United States,” they cried with one voice. “That’s our job.” Clearly, what is needed for world peace is an attack from space.
But there will be ample opportunity to get back to world affairs soon enough. Yes, the clash of civilizations rages on, the polar icecaps deliquesce, insane despots smirk approvingly as atom bombs roll off the assembly line, and the Pope lays his plans for the Rapture, but all that must wait:
I whacked a mouse.
Yup, that’s right. I’m sure you’ve all been wondering, ever since reading about the murine invasion I limned in this space a few days back, how the fight has been going. Well, frankly, the results have been discouraging. Despite my full-theater deployment of a fearsome array of state-of-the-art weaponry, the enemy had, as of late last evening, taken no casualties. Around midnight, however, I was seated as usual at the dining-room table, about to enter the gibbering Voodoo trance that summons each day’s blog post from my innermost plimsoul, when I heard the sweet and sudden report of a spring-loaded Victor mousetrap, hard by the sideboard. I waited a dignified moment for the surcease of post-mortem synaptic activity, then trotted over to gloat. Sure enough, there he was – a doughty, grey-clad, battle-hardened warrior, fit and sleek from the fruits of my larder. With infinite respect I lifted his now-lifeless form and flushed his mouse ass down the toilet.