Squirrels
We have a squirrel problem at work. Sort of like a rat problem, only with bushier tails.

Last week, one of them ate through a wire and broke one of our registers. We fixed it, but then it broke again, and now I don't know what the problem is. Anyway, on the same day that the computer broke, my co-workers had a morning staff meeting and heard the sound of squirrel feet pitter-pattering above their heads, on the other side of the ceiling tiles.

My boss's husband set traps on the lot behind the store, but they got stolen. You know, because it's Texas and animal traps are a hot commodity in these parts. So my boss called her teenage son and told him to bring his BB gun up to the store for some target practice, and I think he tripped over his own boot laces to comply. Word has it that he shot one and was so proud that he brought it home as an early Mother's Day gift, which is disgusting but at least I didn't have to look at it when I took out the trash the next day.

Today I came in and they were poking around in the ceiling tiles, trying to lay another trap or something. I think someone saw an actual squirrel in the store, somehow, unless I heard wrong. The thing is, they kept the ceiling tile open while they worked, and every time I passed under it I imagined that scene from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation where the squirrel jumps out of the tree and attacks Chevy Chase. I kept imagining that it would fly through the air and land on my face and I'd be so scared that I couldn't even scream.

Anyway, foretinterdite suggested calling up Mike Huckabee to take care of it, since he's got so much time on his hands these days. But he might prefer to head down to my university campus, where the squirrels are the size of kittens and will follow you and your bag of Cheetos clear across campus, even if you run.