2006-06-05

Since reading this I have not been able to wee straight. I won’t lie; in the past I have spent a great deal of my day in the bathroom, whacking off with ScarZone to see if I could, so to speak, heal my vagina. No more. The possibility of a malevolent splashing arising from the toilet and interrupting my experimental reverie has put me off this scientific pastime forever.

The Professor—or, as he wishes to be called henceforth, Roosevelt Whiskarub Snatchfact—is of little comfort. Instead of reassuring me that a sewer rat swimming up our toilet is highly unlikely, and that one of the rats of NIMH swimming up our toilet is even unlikelier, he took great pleasure in telling me that when he was a little boy living in Thailand, a shrew swam up their toilet while his brother was in the bathroom. Happily, their father rose to the occasion and murdered it extravagantly with a water jug. Nothing like this has ever happened to me, probably because I am so God-fearing. However, my mother once stuck her foot “into a slipper full of mouse”, although it occurs to me now to wonder if she was not speaking in some sort of sexual code.

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