I come home from that horror show, and my newly acquired hampster bites the shit out of me. We had been getting along famously: Rolling around in her hampster ball while I watch Project Runway marathons. Rolling around in her hampster sand while I expose her to various new wave classics. Rolling around in her hampster wheel while I paint my toenails and tell her of my latest romantic woes, and so on and so forth. As I bent down to greet her that evening, I noticed that she'd stuffed the entire contents of her food bowl into her face at one time.
"Von Fluffy, what are you doing?" I asked as I tapped her from behind, "I just put all that in the--AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH."
She'd whirled around and sunk her hampster fangs deep into my index finger. There are not enough My Little Pony band-aids in the world. We are now having a, how shall I put it, "period of silence." There are more effective ways of communicating that you don't intend to give up your unreasonably large stash of sunflower seeds, hampster. Or maybe there's not, because you're a hampster. Whatever.