Won’t somebody please think of the gerbils?

Hi, Anonymous Correspondent speaking; here to (anonymously) humiliate myself, for the sake of your puerile entertainment. Steve takes up the story…


Our Anonymous Correspondent (AC) had arranged to meet an interesting young lady he’d gotten to know recently. Ostensibly meeting up in Edinburgh on Saturday to go to the Portrait Gallery, the young lady decided to forego the cultural experience and invite our AC to her flat for activities rather more base. This suited our AC down to the ground, given his feeling that portraiture is an, ultimately, dying art form compared to modern art and, indeed, even landscapes, given the advances in architecture and the new artificial palette the post-industrial world has given us to view and reinterpret.

Anyway, our AC, resplendent with two shriveled sultanas where previously there had been plums, was offered a post-coital smoke by the young lady in question. Normally, our AC stays well clear of the old Jamaican Woodbines, finding the only thing more boring than smoking Jazz Fags are the people who smoke Jazz Fags. Under the intimate circumstances however (and the fact that the young lady had pre-rolled two) our AC decided it was perhaps appropriate.

Big mistake. Our AC, unused to the weapons strength substance (that, worryingly, hardly seemed to affect the young lady), was quickly reduced to a paranoid, gibbering mess. Sweating, tears and shakes; our AC had what could only be described as “the fear.” This reaction, and the accompanying silence (save for the odd whimper) seemed to irk the young lady who, quite reasonably, surmised that our AC‘s silence was a sign of our AC‘s indifference to her. She demanded at least some conversation, if further carnality was off the immediate agenda. Looking round the room for a conversation starter, our AC eyed what looked like a pet cage and (feebly, it must be said) asked the young lady if she kept hamsters.

“No. They’re gerbils.”

Unsure if he had offended her (do gerbil owners hate hamster owners, and vice versa?), our AC decided to revert to silence. The young lady, having none of it, looked our AC dead in the eye and asked;

“Would you like to see me feed one to the snake?”

Confusion and paranoia, already a problem, freaked our AC out even further. Was it a sexual euphemism, that he was unaware of (later, our AC would rue that it had been him that had fed his snake to her gerbil)? Sadly, it was not, as evidenced by the young lady’s serious tone and the AC‘s first sighting of what looked like a large fish tank in the spare room of the flat.

What transpired after this was a bit of a blur that our AC remembers little of, save declining the offer of meeting the said snake and the disappointment evident in the young lady. It was mutually agreed that our AC would be better off leaving, all the while unsure if he was unlucky in love, or lucky to be making such an easy escape. Apparently, the last thing our freaked out, half sobbing AC said to the young lady was;

“Please don’t kill the gerbil!”


Anonymous Correspondent here, I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again, but I might grass (pun intended) to the authorities. The SSPCA has a right to know!

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2 Responses to “Won’t somebody please think of the gerbils?”

  1. Gary Loughlin Says:

    Where exactly did the intrepid AC meet this lass?

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