A mouse and meese
Moosed up on May 31, 2026.
“Mouse” and “moose” are so similar—yet so different! But “mice” and “meese” are not: The latter is not a word.
My huzzey-muffet demanded this week that I stop calling her a mouse. And let her out of the basement. Fearing the survival of my gonads, I did.
It must suck to be a mouse. You’re nothing more than a pair of teeth and an anus. Chew on something—shit it out. Chew on something—shit it out. Chew on something? …Shit it out. Or maybe it’s wonderful to be a mouse. No cares in the world—except chewing on something and shitting it out. I have always wondered what it would be like to just be a pair of teeth and an anus.
Becasue mooed at me but refused to squeak anymore.
Three tiny, wide-eyed mice were gently resting in a pile of woodshavings, peanut hulls, and spent cartridges. And what of it? Wherefore and how so? Moreover, why? Beyond what wherein was it alluded to? Hereinafter I thought, more so, insofar as it was wanting: But dugongs yet abounded in my ear canals. And mice ran roughshod over the whiz-fields nearby.
Fried mouse thymus was what’s for dinner. (In case you asked.) And mouse-kebabs are on the menu again!
My great-uncle was a shepherd. His wife was a goatherd. Becasue’s uncle was a cowherd. I decided to become a mouseherd.
That fifth Sunday was upon me and murine ruminations are superior to insipid duplication. So here we are.