Gross Jar

Spring has come, and our former rat deficiency has blossomed like a patch of verminous rhododendron into an overwhelming abundance. In addition to the sandwich bag full of feeder rats that was delivered a week too late and packed in blankets rather than dry ice, our office has been blessed by the appearance of a whole scampering troop of cat-size rodents. The mailroom is basically a petting zoo with a postage meter.

In the Gross Jar, our first rat tried to impress his new friends by splitting his front from crotch to chin and letting his organs hang down into the thick orange brine while his empty skin and skeleton floated on top. A-fucking-dorable.

While all the women in the office were swooning over this cuddle parade, it occurred to us: What better way to celebrate this pointy-nosed bounty than with the addition of fresh human menses to the Jar?

Considering that this magazine runs on a monthly schedule, one could only assume that it would be pretty easy to collect some fresh uterine leavings in time for print. But conveniently enough (quotey quote), none of the office girls’ regular oozing synced up with the deadline, so the job had to be outsourced to one Vice staffer’s ultra-accommodating girlfriend.

After a night of barely avoiding toxic shock syndrome, our surrogate menstruess dropped off a Ziploc bag containing what was only distinguishable as a tampon by the millimeters of white braid somehow left uncaked in brick-red mung.

Allowed a lawnmowing mask as a concession to the Jar’s sun-charged springtime bouquet, our staff member plucked his girlfriend’s bloody plug out of its bag, and in one impressive, fluid motion yanked the cap off the Jar, crammed the tampon into the rat’s flimsy skin balloon until it was fully submerged in the liquid, and slammed the cap back in place. The whole operation took maybe five seconds.

“I started to hesitate for just a second once I had the lid off,” he said, panting heavily after darting back into the office, “but then the smell got into my mouth, and I wasn’t even breathing. I think I still might puke.” Asked about the exact nature of the stench, the staffer could only respond with suppressed gags and muttered abstractions like ‘cancer’ and ‘deathrot.’ The tampon rose buoyantly to the surface of the Jar immediately after the transaction and has been floating there the past four days, slowly slaking off tiny red chunks and tinting the surrounding water a pleasant crimson.