Yes, that one. The subject no one likes to talk about (except the extra-crunchy mice, but more on that later), but everyone knows about it.
I’m talking about mouse time.Mouse time is that week within a month when unfortunate events happen inside mouse underwear.
Advertisers, those damned liars, make mouse time seem like a glamorous occasion…
Or a coy and playful epoch…
But this is the truth about mouse time:
I speak from the mount of knowledge, for as of this writing I am inside the boundaries of mouse time.
Some mice who could be called crunchy say that mouse time is a special time, a time to pause and think about how absolutely wonderful it is to be a mouse.
Wonderful, my tail.
Mouse time is a messy inconvenience at best, and a living hell at worst.
Mouse time means hiding your carefree self behind dark clothes where stains won’t show. It puts a muzzle on luvvy-duvviness. It makes mice want to curl up to pillbug size and cry. It’s infuriating, and just not fair.
Mouse time is not a time for new freedom.
Why does it even exist, anyways? It doesn’t happen to any other animal. Some say it’s necessary because it’s proof that pregnancy hasn’t happened. (Isn’t that what a pregnancy test is for?) Some say it’s a ritual that connects mice to the mysteries of the universe. (Isn’t that what Star Trek reruns are for?)
Why are so many of the mice who speak loudest for mouse time post-mouseopausal?
If I could take a pill with no side effects that puts mouse time on hold indefinitely, I would take it.
Fortunately, mouse time ends, and for some of us it will end for good before too long. That includes me.
What will I do when mouse time ends?
I do not know. I think I will curl up to pillbug size and cry.
benjamint444 / Wikipedia