I comb through the fur with my hands first until I feel the unmistakable bump, telling of the presence of little pests. I part the fur with my palm and use my thumb and index to grab a hold of their surprisingly smooth surface to yank them out. They look like plump, little raisins if it weren't for the tiny legs and visible head writhing as I detach it from it's little meal. Oftentimes, I can't help but sneer smugly at their impotent exertions.
I detest these miserable little wretches. I hate these filthy, little parasites with no purpose, absolutey none in this universe, completely insignificant "life" forms which exist solely to subsist on the blood of nobler beasts and spread disease. I conclude that such a pointless and pathetic blister could only be the work of the devil. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than stepping on them until I hear a soft popping noise. It is so damn satisfying seeing them torn apart and the rich red blood on the pavement.
Some Raisinettes would be good about now.
No comments:
Post a Comment