A lot of you hairless fucks have heard the news: Rats actually didn’t spread the bubonic plague. Nope, it was our filthy cousins from the east, the Central Asian giant gerbil.
Well, what do you have to say? I think you owe us a pretty big fucking apology, you calumnious shit-starters.
For centuries, you six-foot pissholes have given us crap for absolutely nothing. We didn’t kill hundreds of millions of you fragile trap-setters — it’s the other way around!
When you Dark Age dopes looked for a flea carrier to take the rap, you incorrectly pointed your ugly fingers at us, the sweet little rat, permanently tarnishing our reputation and making it a whole lot harder for us rats to do what we love: fuck and eat your garbage.
We tried to squeak the truth to you maze-making dildos for the better part of a thousand years, but noooo, you had to wait until you could properly read tree rings. That shit’s unbelievable — you people listen to what a tree has to say over a rat; to me, that says it all.
Meanwhile, gerbils are crawling all over your giggling children, lounging away in bright classrooms all day, receiving deep-cheek blowjobs from hamsters with low self-esteem all night. I hope you feel terrible and dumb as moss.
Apologizing is a start, but it ain’t enough. So what is our preferred form of restitution? For starters, how about you build us a 100-story-tall monument to all the rats you killed because you thought we had the plague. Then double-stuff that monument full of mozzarella sticks and bags of Chinese restaurant garbage and let us go to town.
I’m not finished. You pukes with skin have to cool it with the rat poison for a while. I’m not saying forever (I’m not an idiot) — just give us a few years where we can eat weird-looking shit without having to worry about it.
So get building, termites. Rats only live four years and I’m already two and a half.
Oh, by the way, if your slice of humble pie is covered in rat shit, I’m not sorry.
Golfunt the Rat