I am TIRED. I am EXHAUSTED. I cannot take it anymore. Every other Tuesday, I hear a knock on the door, and who is it? THREE RATS in a TRENCHCOAT. Again. Every time, they try a new voice, a new mustache, a slightly more sophisticated hat. “Hello, sir,” they say, “may I interest you in donating cheese to my ailing sister Gertrude?” NO. NO YOU MAY NOT, RAT MAN.

First of all, your mustache is made of dryer lint and LIES. Second, your trench coat smells like expired milk. And third, I watched one of you FALL OUT OF THE COAT last week and SCAMPER BACK IN like I wouldn’t notice. You think just because you stacked yourselves vertically and put on a fedora, you’re entitled to my Gouda? My Swiss? MY PEPPER JACK? I don’t think so, sir. Or should I say… sirs. And don’t even get me started on the sob story. “Ohhh our poor sister rat has lactose withdrawal.” Then maybe she SHOULDN’T BE A RAT. Or maybe you could go get JOBS like NORMAL RATS. The circus is hiring. Go juggle something.

In conclusion: if I see one more whisker poking out from under that coat, I will be calling animal control AND the fashion police. Good DAY.