Fritz is busy with her 173 jobs, so Fantz took a turn for this week's "I'm Not There."
About three years ago, I spotted a chubby mouse in our Mile High abode and named him Gus Gus (Cindarelly! Cindarelly!). He was a plump little shit who needed a vermin pal to punch his big ol' ass through his dirt home's front door. I saw his butt get stuck once. I thought I was in a cartoon.
Husband kept saying, "Don't name them, or you'll cry when they snap in a trap. It's them or us." (The little guy was still clumsy and fat, so I still called him Gus Gus.)
The mouse-shit house was quite the pad. It sat: across from Jefferson Park, our scene of drunken disc golf; two blocks from Broncos turf; one mile from downtown, featuring a scenic walk by the Platte; just west of Elitch's illuminated rides; and two blocks from that arena Baptist church, where church-goers could pray to Jesus for us heathens who were pounding tall boys on the front porch in our jammies.
Then Gus Gus got knocked up. With 7 million babies.
However, remaining in the infested house was too convenient, so we stayed. Plus, I could just drink the vermin away. I would guzzle cheap vino and watch my fuzz mutt Clyde slap the mice around like they were a tennis ball with a tail. They'd get all disoriented and smash into walls, then haul ass into one of their many holes.
We'd escape the vermin during our extend-a-summers, where we'd move out to the porch. I'd slap Franzia around while Husband grilled. Clyde would come wagging ass with mouse tails hanging out of his grille that were leftover from Leroy the neighborhood cat's breakfast. In the winter, we'd leave the mice to reign the kitchen as we'd turn off the heat and huddle in the bedroom with a space heater to avoid paying a $300-per-month electric bill.
It was a heartwarming joint when you weren't sober.
Then I got knocked up.
I couldn't drown the mice in wine (figuratively, friends of fur). And Gus Gus' family starting shitting in everything. The rodents lost their fear and planted their flag in mounds of droppings. They finally pooped all over my downtown parade.
So this past weekend, Husband and I packed up the Mile High joint and hauled fast ass to a house in the Berkeley neighborhood.
Fret not, the little fur fucks are still with us — whether it be in the form of turd pellets in our new garage of boxed memories, or in my Hantavirus-filled lungs.
Gus Gus, you were cute, but don't you dare come to my housewarming party. If I could find where I packed my rewind button, I would've smothered you in gravy and served you on a silver platter to Leroy.
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