A ham for a hamster, no burgle
Matriculated on December 7, 2025.
Hop! Jump! Formicate! Subjunctivate! Corpusculate! Matriculate!
I fed a hamster a ham this week. A whole ham. It was a spiral one. It was good. The hamster liked it. But it was 9.6 times the hamster’s own body weight, so he died. But he died happy. I buried the poor little bugger in the can the ham came in, then did a little jig, sang a funeral dirge, and retired to my bedroom where Becasue and I role-played as passionate cavatappi again. (Screw ziti—with or without lines!—it’s cavatappi for me now!)
That sweaty, grunting affair over, I retired to the tire pile in my garage. I made a fort out of them like a twelve-year-old back in ’86. The tire pile is still there—full of dust, spiders, and one very agitated possum. My dear old Mamårp let me keep it. (The tire pile, not he possum.) I’ve carried it with me each time I’ve moved from one palatial abode to another. I’ve moved 7,861 times since 1986. Except I’ve always lived in the same house, right here on Bouillabaisse Boulevard. But I’ve moved 7,861 times. Sometimes an arm, sometimes a leg, sometimes the little guy between those legs! Sometimes my nose. But I’ve always lived here. I’ll always live here. Until that possum evicts me.
Christmas is on the horizon! It’ll be here any second! And still my turkey hasn’t a thing to wear! Perhaps instead we’ll have a ham this year. A hopping ham!
Hop! Hop!