Gross Jar

If there were ever any concerns about God's feelings toward the Gross Jar and its mix-n-match approach to his wonderverse, they were allayed this morning when He delivered unto the office toilet a ringing endorsement in the form of a floating black rat. Anybody who would dispute the validity of this assertion should consider the following: a) we found out yesterday that the shipment of baby feeder rats we ordered last week has been delayed until next Friday, and b) you're a wimp. Quit being a wimp.

Following the appropriate exclamations of gratitude and disgust, our furry, dripping emblem of divine ordination was bagged and placed on the roof next to the Jar, so that they might get briefly acquainted before being wed.

Since its last supplement, the Gross Jar had undergone a magical and wholly unforeseen transformation. Gone was the fetid pool of cloudy brown stink-water, and in its stead was a vivid orange lagoon framed by a slimy white stalagmite of rotten fish and calcified poo. The dancing sunbeams caught in its amber sloosh almost made up for the ass-clenching smell hanging over the entire roof.

Though it broke our hearts to disrupt such fragile beauty, room had to be made for the new tenant, so with much fanfare and dry heaving the lid was pried off and a good mugful of brew dumped onto a portion of leftover roof-ice, which five minutes later had completely fucking melted.

The original plan, to simply empty the bag over the Jar and be done with, it fell through when an errant waft caused the dumper's hand to fly to his mouth and the rat to the ground. Briefly regaining his composure after a solid minute of gagging, he grabbed the now half-frozen little fucker by the tail and crammed him face first into the stew. The violence of the procedure resulted in a geyser of viscous, yellow slop, which in turn triggered yet another round of retching from those in attendance.

The rat seemed pretty happy in his new home (there was even a little stream of floating detritus around his head to keep things interesting), but as mentioned before, his carefree bachelor days are numbered. With the growth-encouraging summer months ahead and a family en route, the search has begun for new digs for ole father ratsy and the shit-blood-cum sludge in which he lives.