So I'm hanging out with some big wigs today. Like, really big wigs. The wigs do not get bigger: CEO of J.P. Morgan whatever the hell, Main Man Bloomberg, some other shmoes. And we are, you know, hanging out. Shooting the proverbial Poop. And at one point, here I am sitting on the ground, over in the corner, cause, you know, that's where I end up at these sorts of events, and what do I see? Not one. Not two, but THREE mice running into the kitchen. (or, I must confess, one mouse three times. Or, one mouse twice and another mouse a single time?)
This is, I remind you, at the Grand Hyatt hotel. The home of Luxury. The home of Comfort. And here were three mice, just skipping all Nimbly Pimbly round the place as if they owned it.
But here's my thing: If mice are just hanging out in the Hyatt, WHAT the FUCK are they doing in my apartment? I mean, I'm a live and let live sort of a dude, right? I have no real problem with the furry little fellas (unlike Mr. Poison'o'pestulance Dingman over there), but I am the first to admit that my spot is something of a Dump. And if you can rub elbows with this man: 
Why would you want to hang out on Dean Street?
