Saved, Part II; or, That Damn Mouse

Last night on the ride home from work, another exotic-tongued evangelical boarded the train and, in a tone similar to that of his predecessor, began:

"Men...all you men on the train...."

Okay, I thought, Brace yourself, here it is, here's the part where he skips women who wear pants and goes right for the jugular, right for the gays.

"All you men on this train," he continued, "who look at the women butt, all men who look at the women butt, God sent you right to the fire of Hell."

I breathed a weary sigh of relief.

One soul seated beside me, clearly desperate to claw his way out of the fiery pits, pleaded with the Messenger, "Aw c'mon man, ain't you ever looked at a girl's behind?" But is was useless, he was Too Far Gone.

The good news is that he disappeared into his next car of victims without tacking on the ever-ready, "...just like the homosexuals," which leads me to believe that God really does hate the pants-wearers and butt-starers just a little more than the gays.



Meanwhile, our traps are still sitting there in the kitchen, awaiting their victims. I've been creeping out of the bedroom for the past two mornings, certain that I would find a twitching little peanut butter-covered, dread-filled rodent, but so far...nothing. Either he was just passing through, or he's allergic to peanuts, or he's purely a carbophile. What do I have to do, roast him a chicken in my new Staub chicken pot?

Because I will. If that's what it takes.

I'm just that determined.