Blogspot, icy manipulator.

Starting out at my job, I felt bad for these mice I work with because half of them develop prostate or colon cancer by the third week of life. The other half have non-functional immune systems and cannot leave the scary sterile room (which I call the MJ Music Video room).

Today, I got pooed on one too many times by female sixty-two so that now, I kind of just want to kill them all.

I am not a mouse bigot because no matter what color, strain, or mouse religion, I hate them equally. At this point, it's reasonable to say that I despise all rodents. If I come across a beaver, I'll kill it. Maybe I'll take a shard of shattered incisor as a fetish trophy. Who knows?

Moving on, let's talk Christian values. Today, my roving eyes found that a male I had misplaced at its weaning two weeks ago had impregnated not one, but four of his sisters. There were 17 pups in the cage. Overcrowding violation reports for everyone!

The worst part of mousework to endure is putting on those ugly canary yellow protection suits. At first I thought there were to keep me from getting mouse herpes. No--turns out it's to keep the mice safe from murine parvovirus. Murine parvovirus, really--Who the fuck cares?!

So after this summer, I am done with animal research.

So you--aggressive 9-month old unbreeding males--if you try to bite me one more fucking time, remember: when your time comes (and believe me, none of you will make it past August), I'm going to raise the carbon dioxide concentration just a little too fast for comfort. Then, after you have stopped spasming, I'm going to break your fat, disgusting necks for good measure.

Then I'm having a party and you are not invited because mice don't deserve pizza or lines of blow off the bathroom sink.