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Housing Crisis: Friend Group Opts For Mouse Named Stuart Little Over You As Their Sixth Housing Pick



Well how do ya feel now? Can’t feel great, I bet. Yea, they chose a rat over you. And word has it they’re picking into East, which already has a ton of rats.


Sure the rat was pretty cute, with its little paws and old carnival barker outfit. But you’re pretty cute, too, or at least you thought. God, if only you had a little rat tail and rat whiskers, then maybe they would love you.


You should have known that little scoundrel would be the death of you. The moment you locked eyes with that preppy little vermin, you should have known you had met your nemesis.


He winked when he first shook your hand. Introduced himself as “Stuart Little.” He was nice at first. Charming, even. You thought you two might be friends. Chums. Buddies. Rat pals. God, you’re such an idiot.


It was subtle, at first. The undermining. He’d interrupt you in the middle of a story. He’d take your spot in the Lee’s booth even when you put your jacket there, forcing you to sit in the awkwardly short chair at the end. He’d make fun of the way you ate tuna melts every day, even though they’re really good and chock-full of Vitamin K.


You got suspicious around Wine and Cheese night, when you didn’t catch an invite. Stuart said it was because you were lactose intolerant, and he didn’t want to make you feel bad, being around all that cheese. “But I still like a good time,” you wanted to say. “I still like hanging out with my cool friends in cool spaces, drinking fine wine, maybe some acoustic jazz playing in the background. I’m a sucker for a soft sax solo.” You didn’t say that. You sat in silence while Stuart made a callback to something really funny he had said at Wine and Cheese night.


Then came the nicknames. He’d call you “Skid face,” “Pink Ham Mcgoo,” “Assclown.” You told him they weren’t nicknames if they were mean. He told you that’s something an Assclown would say, and then whipped his little rat tail at you. Everyone laughed, and then clapped.


The sweatshirts were the last straw. One day you trudged into Paresky at around 12:03,12:04 pm, only to find they were all wearing sweatshirts with his face on it, the words “Rat Pack” inscribed on the back. When you asked Stuart why they didn’t ask if you wanted one, Stuart said the company didn’t make them in your size, which he described as “angular, but in an obtuse way.”


So when it came time to enter the housing lottery, I don’t know what you expected. You’re not part of the Rat Pack. Sorry Charlie, the Rat Pack has a strict no Ass Clown policy. Maybe you can pick into Tannex with all the other unwanted, no-good tuna-fish-sandwich loving Skid Faces.