Elliott Sinclair the III

Pt. 1

We had pink mold on our shower curtain.

We still have pink mold along the caulking that seals the corner between the tub and the plastic wall thingy. Actually, I use the term 'seals' loosely, because the caulking is cracked all to hell, perhaps due to the pink mold. It's neon pink. There's stigmata on our walls from the 'hard' city water we have here in the 'burgh, but the stigmata is a rusty color. The mold is pink. I have a degree in engineering, and biology was always one of my weakest subjects, so although I find pink mold fascinating, I have no idea WHY it is pink mold, or more importantly, why it is growing in our bathroom.

Fortunately, it hasn't started growing on our new shower curtain yet.

It's actually so bright pink it looks like it belongs there, like it's a design cue for our bathroom.

NEXT ON PROJECT RUNWAY: make an outfit using only the pink-moldy caulking in Ben and Ross's bathroom! GET ER DUNN!!!! (or whatever that dude says)

 Shut up, I wash it.

We have a mouse in the apartment. I think I'm going to name him 'Hugh.' We tried to catch him with all these clap-trap 'humane' mousetraps I found on the internet but none worked.

 1.) I rigged up a bunch of cardboard to make a ramp leading up to a garbage can. At the top of the ramp, I precariously balanced an empty toilet paper roll with a piece of cheese, some peanut butter, and a piece of popcorn at the very end. Ross wrote 'Cheese this way!!!' and drew an arrow pointing up the ramp in black magic marker.

The idea: mouse smells cheese, sees sign. Runs up ramp to eat cheese. Right when gets past the center of the toilet paper roll, he (or maybe she) goes tumbling into the bottom of the garbage can.

It didn't work. We tried different types of cheese, and everything, to no avail.

 2.) A tray placed on the floor with an overturned cake pan supported by a bent shish-ka-bob stick above it. A piece of cheese is stuck on the end of the shish-ka-bob stick. Whenever the mouse runs and takes a bite of delicious cheese, the shish-ka-bob stick will fall, thus trapping the mouse.

It didn't work! We tried this for 3-4 days and nothing.  There are even success stories on the page, with a mom and daughter releasing a mouse into the wild.  (Note:  You can see our Tom and Jerry mousetrap success picture at the top)

 3.) A package of 6 mouse traps guaranteed by the Yinzer at Home Depot to 'Break those fuckers necks.'

In progress.

I feel really bad, because I was watching Star Trek: The Next Generation a couple nights ago, and it was the episode where they caught a wayward Borg and nursed him back to life and all became attached to him so rather than using him to destroy the Borg they named him Hugh then let him rejoin the Collective, by his choice, which he had a hard time grasping the concept of, but then when he understood he had a choice, he said he'd rejoin the collective because it was too dangerous to stay on the ship and endanger everyone, especially Jordi. I think he liked Jordi a whole lot because everyone wants to be friends with a black dude. Seriously, even the Borg Hugh was like, man, it would be cool to be friends with a black dude, even if his other gig is Reading Rainbow.

So to make a long story short, I'm watching this show, and I felt really bad for Hugh, and I started thinking about our little mouse friend, who I decided to name Hugh, and how he's just trying to do his thing, like be a mouse, and hang out, and he's not evil, you know, individually, but, like the Borg, you know, collectively, we kinda assume he's an evil or some shit.

But the mouse traps are still out there with the peanut butter loaded in them, but a part of me is hoping that Hugh won't fall for it, will make a choice, and maybe run out in the parking lot and rejoin the collective, and probably just wind up getting eaten by one of those mean fucking alley cats.

Pt. II

About a month after killing Hugh (R.I.P, buddy) a new unwelcome guest decided to make our home his. He made no attempt to hide himself, either; typically an unwanted guest will hang low so as to not inflame the true inhabitants. Hugh was good for that. He was timid. We would occasionally see him streak across the floor, a flash of grey and feet, but that was it.

Elliott Sinclair the III, is a different breed than Hugh was. He's bold. He'll stand in the middle of our living room floor and give you hard looks.

Whenever we first christened Elliott Sinclair the III, we assumed with a name like Elliott Sinclair the III he was sure to be a classy character - he's a BLUE BLOOD, for fucks sake, same sort of pedigree as a Carnegie or a Rockefeller. Educated at Cornell, studied overseas, knows which fork to use with salad and which to use with steak (medium-rare, always with red wine.)

Elliott Sinclair the III, a true renaissance man.

I honestly thought our relationship with Elliott Sinclair the III was going to be different. The staring contest I could handle. I thought he was simply making his presence known, kind of a weekly debutante ball, except he was a dude. And a mouse.

The time finally arrived when we decided Elliott Sinclair the III had worn out his welcome. The debutante balls were increasing in frequency, making guests uncomfortable. He was pooping on the floor. He's a mouse.

I bought the, as the gentleman at Busy Beaver so eloquently described them as, 'Tom and Jerry' mouse traps. $1.49 for 2, what a sad way for someone with so much potential to go out.

I set the traps out, both armed with a peanut butter covered cracker.

Then.... nothing.

Elliott Sinclair the III had vanished!!! To the hamptons, I surmised, to party with Paris, Nicole, and those douchebag twin guys who are in that really shitty band.

Cheers Elliott! Like a true blue blood, you knew when your welcome was worn out!

A week passed.

Two.

The mousetraps stayed armed and dangerous, but still no sign.

I arrived home from work one day to find one of the mousetraps had been sprung; there was no cracker in sight; no dead mouse in sight.

The following day, the other mouse trap was sans cracker, but otherwise undisturbed.

'Elliott Sinclair the III!!! You have shown your true colors, my friend! The rich become rich by freeloading off the poor, you ivy-league fuck-tard!' I screamed at the top of my lungs.

I loaded the mouse trap with a carefully placed potato chip so as to not set the trap.

The following day, the potato chip was gone again! Crafty son of a bitch! I re-loaded the trap with a peanut.

I came home from work today to find the peanut had been snatched.

'This is WAR, Elliott! Motherfucking class war!" I screamed, for once eclipsing the sound of the crazy Russians arguing in the computer store downstairs.

I carefully loaded the trap with yet another peanut. I sat, watched the Penguins game, and ate dinner.

Elliott Sinclair the III came out for his debutante ball, dressed in his finest fur.

I merely shook my fist at him.

He scurried away, then within minutes, I heard snap! and saw the mouse trap flipping about.

"I got you, swine!" I swore under my breath.

Alas, no Elliott Sinclair the III. He had merely sprung the trap, trying to steal the peanut from under my nose.

I will defeat you yet, Elliott Sinclair the III.

Pt. III

Unwilling to allow this noble scourge continue to tarnish the rich heritage of the Sinclair name, I decided upon a final method of attack - one which would appeal to his boldness, hedonism, and vanity. 

I purchased several additional 'Tom and Jerry' mouse traps, brought them home, and loudly unwrapped them so that the cellophane would catch Elliott Sinclair III's sensitive ears. 'That rogue! Attempting to challenge me again!' He must have while thought whilst rubbing his mouse paws dry on a cashmere mouse towel.

In addition to the lowly 'Tom and Jerry' mousetraps (more fit for a peasant mouse than a potential king such as Elliott Sinclair the III, I might add!) I purchased 'goop,' a heavy duty adhesive typically used by peasants to hold their inferior shoes and automobiles together.

I carefully added Goop to peanuts, (it smelt of peasants!) then applied them to the four mousetraps’ catch.'  After carefully following the manufactures recommended cure time of 12 hours, I set and laid the traps in paths I had seen this nemesis of mine take across the kitchen floor.

A few chums and I headed to a local tavern for a night of cocktails, fine food, good laughs, and acceptable music.  Several hours later we returned to find Elliott Sinclair III... DEAD!!! Struck down by the unyielding jaw of death!

I felt at once a sense of profound satisfaction and a deep loss... my nemesis was no more!  Who was King Henry II without Thomas Becket?  Boris Becker without Michael Stitch? John Holmes without Linda Lovelace?

The only way to properly recognize the near greatness that my dear friend and enemy Elliot Sinclair the III had achieved was with a proper burial - so we threw that fucker inside a Pringles can, duct taped it to a broken plate, then threw it off the Birmingham bridge into the freezing Monongahela river.

Elliott Sinclair the III