Michael Jackson versus The Rat

Lately, our house has become rat infested. For me a rat infestation does not require a whole manger of them, it takes one. And this one has come into my home, eaten my food drank my water and drowned in the toilet bowl. This would have been a not so bad thing, if i hadn’t woken up in the middle of the night near bursting point, thinking to myself that maybe Michael Jackson’s urinary bag which spent many a night strapped to his business, since my business was about to happen all over my bedroom floor, to find it right there, mocking me.

Here’s a picture of Michael Jackson.

Now in my mad race to the toilet, which involved a heavy tugging, leg crossing, eye aerobics, and breath panting, arm wrestling and knee jerking fight to get to the toilet i never thought for one that i would find a rat floating belly up in my toilet bowl. I know I'm repeating myself.

But there it was.

Now, i have to tell you that i have a rat phobia. The sight of one petrifies me, as in Harry Potter Basilisk petrifaction. I stood there with my pyjama shorts somewhere between my knee and waist and my panty half way up and half way down.

In my mind it opened its eyes, looked at me and charged. Never breaking eye contact, and still i stood there my mouth opening and shutting much in the way I imagine Michael Jackson did in the years following his plastic surgery, before some Conrad Murray doctor told him to tell the world that he had Vitiligo.

Here’s a picture of Michael Jackson with a monkey.

                                              

At some point i think i may have started letting out mewling sounds, and i caught myself just as i was about to up the pitch. A sound which terrified my mum into coming to investigate.

Dear reader, it is only fair that i tell you that my mother is the cause of this paralysis rendering fear. Once long ago she told me how you would never feel a thing if a rat decided to make a meal out of you, until you were almost gone. 

Here’s why.

And i say this in my mother’s own words. Whilst it bites, it uses one paw to hold onto you and the other soothes you, so that your pain receptors back away because, ‘there’s nothing to see here boys,’ it doesn’t stop there. As it holds strokes and nibbles. It lightly breaths onto the offended part much in the same way a little fan would do. So you never feel a thing. Before you know it, you are all gone.

Here’s a picture of Michael Jackson.

                                             
                           

By this point... the point where mum came to investigate. I had forgotten that i had come here (to the toilet) to pee. And seeing her with her eyes red and confused, jarred me out of my stupor.

I fumbled, around, like we all do when we need to piss. Doubled over as if in pain, crossed my legs and began hyperventilating like i was going into labour. This did not help. I could feel the urine right there at the entrance.

With or without my help it was coming out. I did the only thing i could think of.

Here’s a picture of Michael Jackson in a music video.

                                   

I backed up onto the toilet seat, like a T-truck would, beeeep beeeep beeeep and i pissed all over that dead rat.

Here’s a picture of Michael Jackson.

&nbqp;