Two nights ago I heard a shitload of scurrying from inside my walls and, like any man, I elected to run upstairs and hide in my room until morning came, at which point I could go to work until the problem rectified itself. When it’s fight or flight you better believe I’m finding a way to worm myself into first class boarding. At some point while I was upstairs Louis, our sales guy and my roommate, also heard the mass exodus from inside our walls and found a glue trap which I guess was from a previous tenant. He set this trap and went to bed.
The next morning I walked by the kitchen and left, unaware of the trap’s existence, but I came home to the next day was the most awful, terrifying, and scarring thing I have ever encountered in my human life. I’m embarrassed to say how many mice were on this motherfucking thing — ok, I’ll say it, six. There were six mice. SIX. And they weren’t just sitting there. Ohhhhhh no no, my friend. They were SCREAMING, screaming squeals that will haunt me forever, and they were fighting, gnawing at both other and themselves, in attempts to escape. Don’t believe me? Look it up. One of the problems with glue traps is they will CHEW THEIR ARMS OFF to get free again.
So I walked into the apartment, ready to relax after a day a long day at the sadness factory, only to find a Rat King on my kitchen floor. A cannibalistic rat king, that was wailing bloody murder. I essentially walked into my apartment to find the rugby team Andes disaster: they were trapped, stranded, and didn’t know what to do except eat each other. And what do you do with that? You can’t just pick that fucking pad up with SIX big ass mice chomping at every thing.
A glue trap is like a little kid that hands you some shitty present you never wanted, thinking it’s being nice. “Heeeere, I got this for you!” Goddammit, Samantha I don’t want your stupid drawing and FUCK you, d-Con, KILL THE MICE. Don’t give me this gift of allowing me to kill the things. That’s pretty much your slogan: “d-Con glue traps: when you want to murder mice and see the life fade from their eyes, but the little buggers are too agile to catch with your barehand.” You make every customer Commodus, only instead of deciding if the mouse lives or dies, you decide how it dies. You gonna drown it? Bash it? Just throw the trap away and wait for the mouse to either eat itself or starve to death? It’s all HORRIBLE. Especially when you consider the fact that sometimes there will be SIX FUCKING MICE on the thing to deal with.
So just get normal one that snaps a mouse’s back when it goes for some cheese. You don’t need to do this whole “shoot to wound, trap one mouse, have him squeal for the others, catch them too” thing, because then you have to deal with the cannibal mouse island that you created on your kitchen floor. And these mice don’t sing like sirens, the shriek like banshees and it will haunt you for the rest of your life, or at least a day or so.
PS – I couldn’t bash them. I’m not Charlie Kelly. So I put on headphones, blasted music to drown out their screams, got a shovel, ran out my backdoor, and threw them into the dumpster. For all I know there could very well be a super mouse eating the others, growing stronger with each bite, and will climb out of that the size of a bear. I may have created a super-villain because I’m too much of a pussy to bash a bunch of mice. Whatever, even with that knowledge I still couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill baby Hitler.