This dead mouse was lying in front of my place in West Hollywood about 45 minutes ago. I figured right away “okay, man up, pick it up, put it in the dumpster.” My inner teenaged girl was reluctant to do this — I don’t like to handle dead things — but I shook it off and picked it up by the end of the tail. I was heading toward the garage when the tail fur slid off in my fingers and the mouse hit the pavement. I could feel dead-mouse tail grease on the tips of my right thumb and index finger. I figured he was somewhere between the icky gooey stage of decomposition and ants crawling over his eyeballs. No way was I going to pick this sucker up a second time.

It’s not very manly — I used to pick up dead animals all the time when I was a kid — but I decided that the best course would be to walk over to the washoom inside the restaurant next door and wash my hands. Which I did. Let somebody else take a shot with the mouse. Mine didn’t work.