We bought a crapload of rat poison one time, owing to an infestation that almost drove us out of our home. By dint of furious enterprise and outright cruelty, I broke the back of the insurgency, mainly through the use of warfarin, a terrible toxin that I didn’t want to deploy until it was, frankly, me or them.
It was, said the box, cheese and bacon flavoured. Yum yum. That ought to draw the poor little bastards in, I thought. But Kathy made a very good point.
“How do we know it’s cheese and bacon flavoured?” she asked. “What are we going to do, give it a taste test? It could be shit flavoured, for all we know. What am I gonna do? ‘Hey buddy! Come here a sec, here, have a spoonful of this and tell me what it tastes like.’ Yeah, right, cheese and bacon flavoured”.
It occurs to me that this sort of skepticism is merited towards at least half of all the claims, assertions, and purported facts that we take as gospel in our everyday lives. It’s just one cheese and bacon flavoured carton of poison after another out there, all the live long day.
Anyway, the poor little rodents ate it. Maybe they like the taste of shit.