A Memorable Eid: Of Fence-Jumping, Secret-Psychopaths & Russian Dancers

My posse of beloved Sri Lankans-in-India has increased in number this year. In addition to gutterflower, there's now also the pterodactyl and the pterodactyl's roommate (who's actually Mauritian, but let's not be pedantic). We meet up for the occasional festive flail, such as that of Eid, and so we decided on an Eid picnic this year! Yay. 

We had bags full of Lays chips, bottles of soda, Oreos, pasta, chocolate cake and some random Indian pie that the pterodactyl found somewhere. We collected all our picnic-gear and headed to Central Park. Apparently, today - and this we found out only on arriving there - there was going to be a grand show at the Park courtesy of the Moscow Performing Arts group -- and it was free for all. Needless to say, there was a 10-mile queue lined up at the entrance of the park. We walked for a few minutes and still didn't find the end of that line. We had 2 options: 1. Stand in the queue and have our picnic AN HOUR LATER, when the pasta and the biscuits are all cold and pooey. 

And 2. 'Let's jump over the fence'. 

The pterodactyl is a super-cautious creature, who though is utterly eccentric (dressed up as Terry Pratchett's Death for her college costume-party), never does anything on just pure impulse. She looked at me and said NO. WAY. 

Ten minutes later, I was on top of the fence. Once I got on top of it, I realized I hadn't exactly... thought it through beyond that point. So I was standing there, precariously, awkwardly, on this spikey fence of death, my legs dangling around, trying not to get impaled. People were passing by and going like 'dafuq is this?' and the pterodactyl was just... This calls for a Paint illustration.

I finally got to the other side after a few awkward minutes of almost-getting-impaled-in-the-butt. Then I was like, okay now that I'm on this side, you have no choice but to jump too. This is a common technique of persuasion (creative blackmail, if you will) I utilize in situations where the opposition refuses to comply. So ptero and her roommate managed to jump over as well, while we used my bag as a buffer between the fence-jumper's butt and the spikes of death, to prevent aforementioned almost-impaled-in-the-butt scenario. I still can't believe we convinced the pterodactyl to jump over spikes of death. She claims it was because some bald man walking by had laughed at her while she was struggling on top of the fence, pissing her off and making her want to jump over and GET THE LAST LAUGH (yes, someone has issues). 

Naturally, all this was proceeded by much collective 'omg I'm such a badass' fist-pumping and such. We called gutterflower up who was running late and told her but she was like 'god, that's the scary thing that you guys said you did?!' and she did not appreciate our badassery. I was all, you had to be there, man. It was like Vlad the Impaler meets Mission Impossible. 

While picnicking on the lovely grass at sunset, suddenly a stranger appeared to my right. He looked at ptero and said 'May I ask you a question, from a distance?' We were like, wut. 

'May I ask you a question, from a distance?' he repeated. He was Indian, looked about in his mid to late twenties. I'd heard horror stories about flashers, so I looked away just in case. 

We nodded hesitantly. Then he was all, 'Where are you guys from?' Sri Lanka. 'Oh where in Sri Lanka?' Colombo. Then he sat down. He sat down next to us, in our circle on the grass. 

Weird. 

He started talking about how he liked to learn about new and different cultures. Asked about Sri Lankan politics. Asked what ethnicity were we a part of. Etc etc. Then he said 'I saw you guys jump over the fence' (that was 20 minutes ago, has this guy been watching us?! - Ptero was asking me with a stare). I was like 'Are you a cop? You're a witness, we're going to have to kill you'. He laughed because he thought I was joking. The fellow was well spoken and looked decent. But it was 6pm, in Central Park, Delhi (a city reputed for highest number of crimes against women in India), we were three girls - and here was this random dude who came out of nowhere and sat next to us to ask us random questions about our lives. Ptero, as I said, is very cautious, so she kept silent most of the time, casting furtive glances at me and at the pie. Her roommate was just dodging his questions ('Where in the Maldives are you from?' -- 'Oh the Maldives are so tiny, it doesn't matter where.'). I was just munching on my chips and wondering if he was a rapist.

When gutterflower sat down, I was like 'hey man, eid mubarak... this is... a random dude who just sat next to us'. She was all, uh okay. The four of us tried to talk about normal things, trying hard not to feel totally uncomfortable about the random stranger who wouldn't leave. We tried pointing out how weird it was that he had randomly come up to us, we tried creating long awkward silences to give him the hint -- but he just kept sitting there. 

I check my phone. gutterflower has texted me while sitting next to me: 'WHO IS THIS GUY YOU GUYS HAVE PICKED UP.' I reply: 'DO U THINK HE'S A SECRET RAPIST?' She replies, 'HE SEEMS NICE BUT THIS IS SO STRANGE.'

After some more awkward silence, someone finally goes, 'We should probably head off to the Moscow concert over there'. And we nod and I say 'Well it was nice meeting you' to the strange dude, which is code for 'BYE!' And we ran off. Poor guy. Probably just doesn't have any friends. Or he was a secret-psychopath who was going to chloroform us after befriending us. 

The Moscow Performing Arts were awesome to watch. Russian dancers, jugglers, circus people - pure entertainment. They were like those little screw-up-dolls in the music boxes, with almost battery-charged energy and flawless choreography. 'The Butterfly and the Beetle' was the most memorable performance - featuring a woman on 10-foot-tall stilts who looked like a huge butterfly with wings blowing in the wind. 

Headed home then, listening to my new playlist of The Black Seeds, getting my reggae on in the subway train and making old Indian aunties give me the stink-eye. All in all, another great Eid. Eid mubarak, everybody! 

The [Anti]Social Butterfly

Tools used: watercolours, Faber Castell size 0

Liam Neeson vs. The Big Bad Muslims

I love Liam Neeson. Ever since Taken, he has become Hollywood's Rajinikanth.

A still from Taken 2 and totally not a picture of Rajinikanth edited using Paint

And personally, I enjoyed Taken. It was no artistic masterpiece, but it was undoubtedly entertaining. The horror of a teenage girl getting kidnapped and sold to a brothel was just right, and no one can say they don't enjoy watching Liam beat up a bunch of bad guys, Chuck Norris style.

So, Taken 2 - Remember all those bad guys Liam killed in Taken to save his daughter? Well, in Taken 2, the families of these dead bad guys are super pissed off at Liam, and are going to kill him and his family as payback.

We're first introduced to the families of the dead bad guys, standing over the dead bad guys' graves in Albania -- and they're reciting, and they say 'Aameen' -- before totally going 'omg i kill u liam neeson!!11111111' in strong Middle Eastern accents. Sigh. Yes. The bad guys who want to kill Liam Neeson and his family, are Muslims. Brace yourselves.

The movie shifts between the nation of baddies, Istanbul, and land of the free and just, Los Angeles, America. Liam and his family are holidaying in Istanbul, and the Big Bad Muslims go there too, to kill them all. They kidnap Liam and his ex-wife while the daughter hides in the closet. Liam calls his daughter up on his tiny secret phone while imprisoned at a 'secret location', and tells her to get his grenades from his closet and throw it all over Istanbul -- Liam listens to the sounds of the bombs going off and estimates how far away she is from him. Meanwhile, the audience giggles at the comical irony because this teenage white girl is bombing a Muslim country willy-nilly.

Then, because Liam Neeson is Liam Neeson, he manages to direct his daughter to him, using only the sound of grenades and a map of Istanbul that his daughter is looking at. Liam then kicks the gas-vent in his prison cell causing it to smoke up - and he's like, 'My vent is sending out white smoke - do you see it?' The daughter turns around and she's like, 'yep'. Finding secret locations is easy as pie. She runs to the vent and drops a gun down the shaft for her dad. Although Istanbul is full of vents that are known for venting smoke, at this moment in time, Liam's is the only one doing so in the whole city, thus making it possible for his daughter to locate him by merely prancing around outside for a few minutes.

Anyway, Liam has a gun. Shit's gonna get real. He goes around shooting all the baddies, blah blah. Meanwhile, the bad guys are meeting up and going 'Assalamalaikum' and carrying out their plans to kill the American family like the Big Bad Muslims they are. Although they are aware that in Taken Liam managed to locate the jillion baddies in a country of 12 million people, and then kill them all -- these silly Muslims still fail at basic Security precautions, and Liam once again, just waltzes into all their secret hideouts and annihilates them. Like a hundred baddies will shoot at Liam, repeatedly, from all sides, but he never gets hit. He shoots once, with his revolver, and they drop like flies. Rajinikanth could not have done it better.

Lots of camera shots of mosques in Istanbul, the Azaan being recited, Burka-clad women walking around and giving Liam's daughter the stink-eye (because although in reality barely 20% of Turkish women even wear the headscarf today much less the burka, reality is too mainstream for this director). Anyway, long story short, Liam kills all the baddies, and saves his ex-wife (the teary-eyed reunion is classic Tamil movie stuff, more so than the fight scenes), and safely leaves his daughter at the US Embassy in Istanbul -- the safe haven from the evils of the nation of Big Bad Muslims.

Finally he is in a showdown with the Biggest Baddest Muslim, this crazy old guy whose son used to kidnap and sell foreign girls like Liam's daughter (before Liam totally kicked his butt). Liam is like, man, because I'm awesome and also believe in all-American freedom, I'll give you a chance to live if you agree to leave me and my family alone. And this guy is like, k. Then Liam turns around and the bad guy's like HAHA I LIEDDD and is about to kill Liam, but Liam's like, STFU and grabs the bad guy's face. The bad guy dies. I'm not sure what that was about. Face-grip of death or something. Mad skillz.

The scene shifts back to LA, lalala jazzy music, sunny skies, happy people - heaven compared to the dirty yellowed streets, ominous Burka ladies and unshaven gunmen of Istanbul. They all sit around and have ice cream. The end. You know, as a Muslim maybe I should have taken a moment to be offended by all the ridiculously obvious anti-Muslim imagery in Taken 2, but honestly, I was too busy laughing. 

Lesson #22

I like to think that we grow a little every year (not up in my case, cuz who am I kidding?), that we learn things we didn't know the previous year. And I think this year I've learnt that - getting what you want? You know, the whole go-after-what-you-want-if-you-wanna-be-happy thing? - is overrated. Sometimes you just don't get what you want. And that's okay. Because most of the time, you don't need what you think you want, to be happy. Sometimes seeing other people happy instead can be enough. And healthier even. 

In other news, winter is coming (cue Game of Thrones theme track). I laid down on the terrace this evening and I could feel it. This means cold morning breeze, white mist ghosts in the street, fancy jackets. Icy tap water. Warm plate of Maggi noodles on a freezing afternoon. Boots. Never getting out from under the quilt. Fuzzy sweaters. Yeah. It's going to be nice.

Yay for winter gloves.

 

In Japan: Pay 1000 Yen To Hug A Strange Girl

Yep. Hugs aren't always for free anymore. And I didn't just make that up to make you read my blogpost. This shit is for reals.

Now, Japan is known for some weird stuff. Hentai being one of them. I am not even going to go there. But when I saw this story in the Sunday Times of India, it pretty much won the competition for weirdass.

A new shop has opened up in Japan's Akihera district. 'Soineya' which literally means 'sleep together' calls itself a 'co-sleeping specialty shop' and it lets customers sleep chastely in the arms of a beautiful girl of their choice. It also offers a variety of other services such as foot massages and an affectionate pat on the back - all for a fee of course. Its target audience is the otaku - someone who prefers imaginary worlds to reality, the Japanese equivalent of a nerd.

'Maids' in a maid-cafe depicted in an anime (Japanese cartoon)

In the 1980s, Hostess Clubs were popular in Japan - where women were paid to sit with men, listen to them, fill their glasses and light their cigarettes. The 'hostesses' were 'mature women trained to talk with equal felicity about politics and sex'. Then came Maid Cafes in the 1990s that featured more two-dimensional hostesses, who offered different services to customers but they wouldn't get physically engaged. Apparently the 'co-sleeping specialty shop' is a 'new evolution' of these maid cafes. There are now a variety of types of cafes - with no shortage of customers - one of which is the 'tsundere', where the customers are first treated rudely by staff but as they leave, the staff turn sweet and loving, begging the customer not to leave them.

One can't help but imagine. You walk in, and the waitress spills tea on your shirt and calls you a dumbass. Then when you get mad and get up to leave, she's like 'Nooo, don't go, come back! I'll hug you for 1000 yen!' And then I guess the customer is turned on by these symptoms of split personality.

These are Soineya's 'cuddle charges', according to the newspaper article.
Duration - 3 minutes.
Customer sleeps in girl's arms - 1000 Yen
Girl pats customer on the back - 1000 Yen
Customer pets girl on the head - 1000 Yen
Customer and girl stare at each other - 1000 Yen
Girl changes into new clothes - 1000 Yen
Girl gives customer foot massage - 1000 Yen
Customer gives girl foot massage - 2000 Yen
Customer sleeps with head on girl's lap - 1000 Yen
Girl sleeps with head on customer's lap - 2000 Yen

Spending four hours cuddling a strange woman would cost around 33,750 Sri Lankan rupees while twenty minutes will cost you around 5000 Sri Lankan rupees (damn that's an expensive cuddle!)

Glorified prostitution? Or just weird Japanese folks being weird? I don't know. All I know is Japan is beginning to sound like a strange, strange little place. With very strange little men, if these cafes (and Hentai) are any evidence. I don't mind visiting one of these joints some day, just to interview somebody who would actually pay 1000 yen for a staring contest with a stranger. And mostly for the lols, when some sad little man goes 'here's 1000 yen, now stfu and pat me on the back'.

Sach, you're in Japan aren't you? Paid for a hug recently? :p

The Time Traveler by ~xetobyte

I feel a tad wonky lately. Because I want to go home. I've drawn up a chart - you know shit is serious when I draw up a chart - on my little white board: a little calendar-countdown to the day I'll get on a plane and fly away. Exactly 46 days to go.

I called up G, a fellow Sri Lankan stranded among Indians, and we talked for more than an hour about the beautiful people back home and the katta sambol and the kiribath. And we heaved perfectly synchronized sighs.

When there's only about a month till you get to unforeign yourself and go back to where you come from, everything around you changes instantly. The Indians are all annoying now and the places I was crazy about here have suddenly taken on a mediocre tinge. I'm irritable and withdrawn, because my body and mind have noticed there's barely a month to go and so 'it's time' now to leave, and they're really pissed off at me for not hurrying up. And I'm really pissed off at Time for the same. So you see it's all a very mad, sordid affair. Last night I dreamt of pol sambol. Waking up was painful.

My cousin studying in Pakistan gets to fly back home tomorrow. Why? Because of a brain-eating amoeba epidemic. I kid you not. Pakistan is just across the border from Delhi. So maybe if I help one of the victims of the zombie-amoebae-attack smuggle themselves over here, we could have an epidemic here as well, and I could go home early too! Naturally, I presume victims of these zombie-amoebae turn into brain-eating zombies, so all I need to do is find a brain, and lure the infected Pakistanis over the border.

I have exams in a few weeks, you know. And instead of studying I'm drawing up strategical charts for the smuggling of zombie Pakistanis. Wonky was an understatement.

Ready, Set, Go!

Hello I'm a rat, in the proverbial race. And so are you. 

I wasn't always like this though, I used to be on the sidelines, stretched out on a lawn chair, watching the other rats pass me by, sipping on my juice box. I remember seventh grade. I came 14th in a class of 30. Bah, the rat race is too mainstream! And so I'd chill in that lawn chair, non-committal, not particularly interested in the lifecycle of the tape worm we were studying, or the equations in my Physics book - I did enjoy the chemical experiments in the laboratory though, ah I remember the stench of Ammonia staining someone's uniform like it was just yesterday! - wandering the school grounds with my friends, drinking Milo, sitting on the rooftop, etcetera. I didn't think I was being cool or anything by it, getting Average marks wasn't cool in my school. I just failed to give a shit. 

Mother was not pleased. Shameela was the girl who always came first in class, since the beginning of time. She was a friendly skinny girl with glasses, very studious, whose parents trained her well in regular revision, and who cried when she got 8 out of 10 instead of 9 - while I was just relieved I got a 5.5 out of 10 which meant I didn't fail. So my mother would use that line that Sri Lankan children dread to hear but hear too often: If Shameela can do it, why can't you? 

Needless to say, I was not a fan of the educational rat race. Why is everyone clamouring to get higher marks for the Bio test? How does it matter? Who cares? How does your knowledge of all the functions of the dung beetle matter in any way? This ennui only got more severe when I was introduced to Literature in eleventh grade and I met the emo existential/suicidal/homicidal prince Hamlet. Sometimes I think I got my 50 and 60 percents - just to spite the race, as a refusal to conform to its expectations of me, just to be like, I forfeit! Fuck you very much! Mostly though, I was just lazy and apathetic. 

But then everything suddenly turned upside down in university. Suddenly, I wanted to be the best in my course and took it personally if it was ever suggested I wasn't, as though my sense of worth depended on my exam results. I have become Shameela. I wonder if it's because writing and literature are more a part of who I am than the lifecycle of the tape worm ever was? 

I'm a rat in the front row now, cautious and crafty. Sure I help everyone out with their work and even give my roommates personal tuition time before exams. But then I remember when a student I considered a 'threat' to my top rank position said 'oh I think I screwed up this question at the exam' and I told her 'don't worry, I'm sure you didn't do too badly' - but on the inside I was like 'YAY! She screwed up her paper!' like a crazyass competitive little bitch. I get nervous when I see other people studying-up, and I'm like 'oh shit, I better run faster'. Then there's all the pumping my fist in the air and dancing around when I do pass the finish line first. 

Have I turned into a horrible person? A bit, I think. The chilling-on-the-lawnchair part of me still believes competition is just petty and is ashamed of my newly acquired ratliness. Because deep down I still believe the examiner's red numbers marked on your paper mean nothing. And that people need to do what they do well - but doing it better than someone else doesn't do much besides stroke the ego and give your parents a faux-high. Also it could turn you into a self serving asshole. I'm not there yet, don't worry, I still have a conscience. But hey, rats aren't supposed to. 

I have some friends I like to hang out with on the weekends. They live on the pavement outside my apartment in 5x3 plastic-and-tin houses. They're the friendliest people I've ever met. They're more accepting and more open minded than anyone I know, and some of them more intelligent and wittier than any friends I've made before. And I don't even speak the same first language as they do. 

Talking about this kind of thing is always an awkward affair, because people look at poor people as 'the other', 'them', 'the ones who are not us'. And there's a haa-hoo about 'inter-class mingling', it's charity, it's something great, it's something only Mother Teresa and NGOs do, hey let's cue some heartrending slow piano music -- all this, if you ask me, is bullshit, and just sustains classisim alongside other demons like racism and casteism. They are just people. The only difference between these kids and me is that when it comes to money - because life is random - they got the bad end of the stick.

It did start out as charity. It was a winter evening and a friend and I thought why don't we go and share some coffee from the canteen with these kids who lived across the street. So it became a ritual, and a bunch of us went there and started teaching them what little we knew. Some of us went home feeling better about ourselves, because we'd 'done a good deed', we'd 'given to the needy'. 

But it's been almost a year since then and it's gotten a lot more personal than that. Now it's just about spending time with some people I love to spend time with. On my bad days, when I feel like punching someone in the face, and I really want to go back home - Meenu and Bandhana jump up and down from across the road and scream at me when I'm walking to university, they're grinning and laughing and waving and shouting 'Dhidhi!' (big sister). And that helps. 

There's free hugs and huge grins. There's the occasional tantrum as with any kid. There's the 'are you hungry? I'll share my lunch with you's and the 'how is your leg today?' when they see my friend's bandage. There is always unconditional love, the kind I have never seen before. And for what? All we do is teach them to draw triangles and cats, and add 4 plus 8, and how to sing about a star that twinkle twinkles. If there's any charity going on here, the teachers are on the receiving end. 

The policeman on behalf of the oh so glorious Indian government came along today on his bike, looking for a bribe, telling them it's illegal to set up homes on the side of the road. Where else are they supposed to go? I asked him angrily. The government was asking them to leave, but not giving them a place to leave to. In short, it was the government's way of reminding them that it did not give a shit. As another teacher and friend reasoned things out with the policeman, I was thinking, what are we doing? I don't know anything about politics or economics or land-ownership or governance. We're university undergraduates in an Arts faculty. It's probably not our job to interfere in this kind of stuff. But then, I wondered, if it's not our job, whose is it? 

The whole six yards

R is getting married in December this year and in lieu of the epicness of the impending wedding, the gang's decided to go all out and wear sarees for the occasion! I was up for the idea mostly in the name of comedy, because we aren't usually fancy-saree girls, we're more the baggy-tshirts-and-play-mortal-kombat type. So it's going to be pretty hilarious when we all turn up looking fabulous in spiffy sarees. My sense of humour is warped, I know.

An Indian friend taught me to drape one today. And I don't know about you guys, but I think the saree is the sexiest, most beautiful thing a woman can wear. It's gorgeous, the pleats, the draping, the elegance. It's a shocker to me that girls pick their skinny jeans and short skirts over this one. 

But then again, donning six yards every morning isn't exactly a walk in the park. 

*cue superhero music*

Ladies and gents, I stand here before you today to gloat about the best thing that I have ever accomplished in my life.

(This may be the endorphins talking.)

Yes, this.

I would like to say to all my nay-sayers out there who often scoffed at my attempts to conquer the kitchen (including my mother and my grandmother): HA! HA, I SAY! IN. YOUR. FACE. 

Gotta admit, I've come a long way since my french-toasting days back in '09. 

Two housemates and I whipped up this batch of awesomeness today, reminiscent of Sri Lankan Devilled Chicken. We looked up the recipe online, made it our own, and had it with a dish of my recipe for mixed rice. 

I'm not just bragging when I say it was the most delicious thing I've had since landing in India since the summer holidays. And it was like tasting my aunty's amazing homemade food again. 

Surprisingly, it was really simple to make too. So for all you kitchen enthusiasts or students abroad who want a bite of home:

Serving - for 3 people

Instructions: 

1. Don't wear an apron. Aprons are for sissies.

2. First of all walk into the kitchen and point a spatula at the wall and say, 'I am here to conquer you, kitchen. And conquer, I shall!' and then point the spatula at the ceiling and cackle maniacally. Wear a metal pot on your head for additional dramatic effect. 

3. Then while 'Eye of the Tiger' plays through your earphones, arrange your utensils on the pantry table and say a prayer to the kitchen gods. 'May this dish turn out awesome, and may no frying oil fly out and hit me in the face. Amen.' 

4. Remove the metal pot from your head and get down to bizniz, nigga. 

Mixed rice

1. 2 cups of rice, 3 cups of water - put it in the cooker. 

2. After the rice is done (my small cooker takes 10 minutes) - don't take the rice out yet. Add 1 tsp Chilli Paste (gotta smuggle this from back home of course) and almost 1 tsp salt. Mix.

3. Add fresh raw chopped up capsicums and onions (2 peppers, 2 onions). Mix it like a boss and keep that pot closed for a while.

Devilled chicken

1. Make a yummy paste - of 5 red chillies, 3 peppercorns, 2 cloves, bit of turmuric, bit of cumin, small piece of cinnamon, 1/2 cardomom. Grind it up with a bit of water till it's really red and pastey. 

2. Cut the chicken (1/2 kg) into sizes of your liking, clean it, sprinkle a bit of salt and keep aside.

3. Fry some sliced onions. Add 1 tsp garlic and ginger paste. Add the RED PASTE you just made and fry for a few minutes.

4. Add the chicken to this mix, stir well and cook for about 5 minutes. Add tamarind juice and vinegar and cook for another 5-10 minutes, till you see a thin dynamite curry, and the chicken turns golden brown, tender and smells like heaven. 

Serve devilled chicken with the rice and try not to jizz from the ecstasy. 

Attack of the Ninja Rat

There's a rat in my apartment. There are also nine females in it. Behold the formula for chaos.

There was a scream that broke the silence at 3am. People ran to the room from which the scream had come, with deadly broomsticks and rolled-up-newspaper bats in hand. Apparently the evil spawn of satan had been seated in a hole in the wall (the bulb had been recently removed from it), and had been giving the death-stare to its potential victim, who naturally, had screamed for her mummy.

Next, seeking to viciously maul the girl, it climbed out of the hole and down the wirey-pipey stuff that was hanging on the walls, and got itself tangled in the wires. MORE CONFUSION. A brave housemate armed with a broomstick started poking it around, trying to get it to leave. It just scrambled around, and there was a lot of panic and madness as it scurried about. Ultimately, the rat disappeared, but no one knew how. Whether it was lurking inside some nook or cranny, waiting to attack like the spawn of satan it is, or it had run away to get calavry and increase its army of death, no one was certain.

The poor girl asked the broomstick-girl to share the room with her for safety measures. Then in the middle of the night, allegedly she felt a furry thing on her back and there was chaos yet again and the lights were switched on - but the rat was nowhere to be seen. Either she imagined it, or more likely, we had in our midst a creature deadlier than a mere household pest: a ninja rat. They all moved to another room and relative peace was restored.

I had been blissfully oblivious to all this kalabala, fast asleep in my bed, because I have this amazing ability to sleep through an earthquake. So I've never even seen this ninja rat of doom. I've been told it's ugly as the bowels of hell itself, and the size of a grown man's hand, with eyes that stare into the pit of your soul. We've bought rat poison and are going to strategically place it near the doors we suspect it has creeped under.

Personally I feel like this will do nothing, for it is a ninja rat who will leap over these mere mortal obstacles and attack its enemies with the rat karate skills that it has honed for centuries. So I'm expecting to wake up to a blood bath tomorrow. I'm going to sleep with a knife under my pillow and a helmet so it doesn't try to climb into my ears. I could only find a butter knife and a bucket for a helmet, but still.