The Mice

Once I had a problem with mice.  They had a little hole in one of the walls of my bedroom, and at night they would skitter across the floor.  Unfortunately, skittering is one of the noisiest ways a mouse can move, and they would keep me up all night running little mouse races around my bed.  They were fun to watch at first, but a couple of times they grazed my leg with the starter pistol.

I decided to try and catch them with a basic mouse trap, with a hunk of cheese serving as bait.  The mice refused to take the cheese, saying that the piece was too large to pass through their hole and into their burrow.

So the next day I hired an architect to enlarge the mouse hole by a few inches, using tiny sticks of dynamite.  This wasn’t good enough for them, and they presented me with a list of demands.  Apparently, the more sophisticated mice only eat cheese out of a fondue pot with very tiny forks.  Outraged, I began to crumple up the tiny list into an even tinier ball, a feat which turned out to require a magnifying glass, a pair of tweezers, and a heroic amount of patience.

Once sufficiently crumpled and spherical, I tossed the list back at them with a defiant snort.  They shot me in the face with the starter pistol.  I moved out the next week into a hut made of mud and sticks.  I hear the mice sold the property for a handsome profit, and then opened a chain of fondue restaurants.