Bucket Bros: The Carpenters of Comedy
Rats in the Oven
I put the rats in the oven, maybe that will do the trick. You can't chop 'em up, found that out the hard way. The just snap back into place like nothin ever happened. Made me kind of jealous, really. Wish my marriage worked like that, maybe then I wouldn't have gotten involved with talkin rodents.
I don't know why they find me so damned interesting, no one else ever has. But then again, maybe I should have left them alone when they were scratchin around in the walls like normal rodents. But a man with a history of mental illness can take a toll on an otherwise normal situation.
So I started talking to 'em. No big deal at first, go out and drink a pint or two at the pub, come back to my flat and holler at the walls. Tellin the damned creatures about the arrears on my flat, two and a half months rent worth, most of which I drank away.
Oh sure, you can drink alone at home, costs less than drinkin at the pub, but these days that means you have "a problem" If only life were that simple, "a problem". I have plenty of problems, not even includin the fuckin vermin currently scratchin on the inside of my oven, sayin "Let us out, friend. This is not a nice thing you're doin"
No Shite. I want the little buggers gone before mornin. I'm livin out a God damned camp fire story, and it's gettin old fast.
I hate writin on this old typewriter. I miss when me and the rats were on good terms, before things went sour. Those were happier times, brief as they were. Good listeners they were. Nobodies gonna be readin this. Writings of a mad man. I'm runnin outta ink.
Let me just tell you this much, dear reader. If I'm bein crazy right now, which I freely admit I've got a history of, havin been locked away in more than one of those dark places where people go to be forgotten about, then how did they snap back into place after I chopped 'em up?
Thinkin rats can talk, I wouldn't put that past me, especially when I'm pissed. But seein those little buggers pop back together, all the blood soakin back into their tiny little bodies? That ain't the kinda crazy I got. Or how they're still scratchin to be let out of the oven? After ten minutes of me typin and them roastin? That's not normal.
Well, I guess I'll go let 'em back out. Hope they're not too mad at me. Maybe if I give 'em a bit of cheese they'll be on their way, and I can get back to drinkin.
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