(I also had a Captain Cold themed mouse trap with a drawing of the Flash villain urging mice to "chill," but it wasn't as cool as the Dr. Doom one.)
Some readers took issue with a) my partnership with Doom, and b) my lethal methods. P-Tor in particular eloquently argued for more humane means of eliminating those damn mice.
Well, now I've got rats in the garage. Big fucking Norway rats. You can hear them scurrying noisily around behind the paint cans and under the cabinets - they sound like invisible dwarves. They leave turds the size of deer droppings on my countertops. My daughter Ava saw one the other day when she was getting in the car, and she mistook it for a squirrel. I'd let my cat deal with them, but I'm afraid the rats would kill and eat her. My mouse traps are inadequate - they would just piss these gamma-irradiated monsters off and I'm afraid they would come for me and my family while we sleep. I need to get rid of these bastards or make them pay mortgage. Clearly I needed to get some spring-loaded bear traps or some terrible poison to get the job done.
Or so I thought. Then I took Ava to see Ratatouille.
It was her first movie theater experience, and at first she was a little overwhelmed by the digital sound system and the huge screen, but she enjoyed it. So did I; it's another quality Pixar movie with absolutely stunning animation. Ratatouille even has a F*%# Yeah moment - the climactic scene when sinister food critic Anton Ego finally tastes Remy the rat's cuisine is absolutely brilliant.
On the drive home Ava and I were talking about the movie and what parts we liked, what parts were scary, etc. I pulled into the garage, and my daughter says: "Dave, we have rats in our house, too, don't we?" Yes, she calls me Dave.
Now I can't kill the hideous vermin that infest my garage. Now I'm going to have to buy little cages and humanely trap these little bastards.
You win, Pixar. You win, P-Tor and Ava. You win, tiny little Angel Dave on my left shoulder.
You live another day, Norway rats.