I was talking to Muffy yesterday after my wife and I watched a movie, starring Steve Irwin. I have had Muffy since I was in first grade, so that makes him 59 years old. Many people don't believe me that he is 59 years old. They say that Gerbils only live 3 years. But that is the average. Many gerbils fall far outside the bell curve.
Muffy claims that his secret to longevity is smoking one cigarette and taking one short of bourbon everyday at 4pm.
Muffy occasionally escapes from his cage, about once every two or three years. At first I say to myself, "He'll turn up soon, hiding behind the dresser, or in the laundry hamper." But as the days drag on I become increasingly despondent. After about a week I put up posters all over the house: "If you see Muffy, the Gerbil, contact Mark." And I display the most heartbreaking picture of Muffy with his big brown watery eyes. I have one housemate: my wife. A few days later my wife announces that she has found Muffy and returned him to his cage. And Muffy is invariably rejuvenated by his vacation from his cage.
Once when he returned to his cage he insisted he was female ("they/them"). But I didn't mind. I was just glad they were back.
So I told Muffy that the movie we had watched starred that crocodile hunter who had been a classmate of mine in the first grade, and whom I had brought home to meet Muffy. Muffy replied in his characteristic smoker's rasp: "If dat fucker pokes me wid a pencil one more time I'm gonna poke dat pencil up his butt so far it'll knock his two front teef out." (I personally don't use that kind of language, but Muffy does.)
I know you're going to tell me that Gerbil's can't talk, and yes, I know that, but I have known Muffy so long that I know what he's thinking and what he wants to say, just by the look in his eye. He's Republican, by the way; not a Trump supporting Republican, but more of a conservative opportunistic Republican.
I told Muffy that the crocodile hunter was dead, killed by a crocodile. "Serves him right!" Muffy replied. "Anybody who makes their living poking animals deserves what he gets." And I suppose Muffy has a point.
Muffy claims that his secret to longevity is smoking one cigarette and taking one short of bourbon everyday at 4pm.
Muffy occasionally escapes from his cage, about once every two or three years. At first I say to myself, "He'll turn up soon, hiding behind the dresser, or in the laundry hamper." But as the days drag on I become increasingly despondent. After about a week I put up posters all over the house: "If you see Muffy, the Gerbil, contact Mark." And I display the most heartbreaking picture of Muffy with his big brown watery eyes. I have one housemate: my wife. A few days later my wife announces that she has found Muffy and returned him to his cage. And Muffy is invariably rejuvenated by his vacation from his cage.
Once when he returned to his cage he insisted he was female ("they/them"). But I didn't mind. I was just glad they were back.
So I told Muffy that the movie we had watched starred that crocodile hunter who had been a classmate of mine in the first grade, and whom I had brought home to meet Muffy. Muffy replied in his characteristic smoker's rasp: "If dat fucker pokes me wid a pencil one more time I'm gonna poke dat pencil up his butt so far it'll knock his two front teef out." (I personally don't use that kind of language, but Muffy does.)
I know you're going to tell me that Gerbil's can't talk, and yes, I know that, but I have known Muffy so long that I know what he's thinking and what he wants to say, just by the look in his eye. He's Republican, by the way; not a Trump supporting Republican, but more of a conservative opportunistic Republican.
I told Muffy that the crocodile hunter was dead, killed by a crocodile. "Serves him right!" Muffy replied. "Anybody who makes their living poking animals deserves what he gets." And I suppose Muffy has a point.