Sewer Rats’ Useless Cousins, Repped by Satan’s PR Agency

Internets, I want to talk to you today about the fuzzy little fucks known as hamsters – the World’s Worst Pet, and a creature that will bring you nothing but fiery, fiery agita, should you choose to let one or more inhabit your domicile. My roommate in college wanted to get one; I was like, if you do that, Mick, I’m gonna put the goddamn thing on the windowsill, take your field hockey stick, and smack it out over the Quad and into merciful oblivion.

See, I had hamsters, as a kid. Got a pair of the little cretins on, I think, my 10th birthday, after months of ceaseless begging and large promises to take care of them. I thought they were cute. Cute, Jesus. Cute like a hemorrhoid, as it turned out.

We had a big cage, and some fuckin habitrails for these wads of pestilence to run around in. Cage was layered with that wood-chip stuff, there was a wheel, there was plenty of food and drink – I was BEYOND THRILLED to actually get my cutesy-wutesy little fuckin hamsters.

People, I think that thrill lasted about sixteen seconds. Maybe less. It was about until the first time one of them pissed, rendering all that nice wood-chip smell moot, or maybe till the other one bit me in the webbing between my thumb and forefinger – crunched right the fuck through the skin, and I bled all over the place. And things went from bad to worse. The pissing and shitting proceeded at epic levels 24/7, necessitating total cage cleanout every ten minutes (or that’s how I remember it – no 10-year-old can keep up with it, is what I’m saying, and WOE unto you who neglect the cleaning – the smell fills the house, and smacks you in the face from about a mile away). We added more habitrails, hoping to spread the cleaning out some – but that just netted us more acreage to clean. I started not worrying so very awfully much when one of the cats would sit on top of the cage, eyes hyper-alert and tail switching back and forth, for hours at a stretch; I started being a little lax on shutting the escape gate, or fastening the habitrails so very tightly together. But the smell and the eternal cleaning and the fact that you couldn’t even PET the little shit-machines without getting bit or pissed on – well, that was topped by the Babies Incident. The pair … well, they had a litter of babies. Half a dozen tiny, transparent fava beans. And then they ATE THEM. The hamster parents ATE their own babies. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

I don’t even remember what happened after that. Maybe the cats got ‘em (go, CATS!!), or they escaped, or a merciful god released us from our penance by rapturing them up, but either way, they disappeared and we sold their cage and whatnot in a garage sale, thank Shatner.

And ever since then, I’ve been the Anti-Hamstervangelist. For example, Saturday, in the pet store, Mr. Gleemonex and I were picking up some fish for our 240-gallon tank, and there was this 9-year-old skater kid with awesome hair (I’m talking long, flowing, white-blonde baby-Bones-Brigade hair, not buzz-cut “got my own reality show on VH1, already support my whole fam w/my corp sponsorship buxx” hair) who was happily choosing stuff to go in … a hamster cage. I started in, kind of loudly, protesting in his and his mom’s general direction – “Oh, man, no. Don’t do it. It’s the worst decision you’ll ever make. You’ll never have a moment’s peace, once you do this. They are the Worst Pet Ever, I guarantee you. BIG mistake. Don’t do it, I’m warning you both.”

Internets, I don’t think they got the message. Even now, they’re probably living in a hell of their own making, wondering where it all went wrong. But it isn’t too late for you. Heed my warning, ye Internets, and SAVE YOURSELVES FROM THE HAMSTER PLAGUE.