Listen very carefully. I will say this only once. If you repeat any of what I'm about to tell you I will have to kill both you and whoever you told. I haven't worked out how I'm going to do this yet. It may surprise you to learn this, but guinea pigs are not known to be amongst the world's deadliest predators. However, if you're a bloke, at the very least I'll run up your trouser leg and bite your dangly bits. If you're a chick, well, I'll think of something unpleasant. Maybe I'll hide in your bra and bite your nipple when you put it on. Anyway, what I'm saying is that what I am about to say is strictly confidential - between you and me only okay?
My staff took Badger and I to the vet today. We have an infestation of mites which are making us itch and giving us bald patches on our bottoms. Not a good look. Not everyone wants a Brazilian you know. Some of us like the hairy look. Anyway, the vet - Dr Doolittle - or whatever his name was said we had to have a series of three needles. Badger must have misheard because he volunteered to go first. perhaps he thought old Doolittle had said we had to have a series of three nectarines or something. Anyway, he sat there quietly while the vet jabbed the needle in him and clipped his toenails and returned to my male staff's lap with a very smug look on his face.
So then it was my turn. My female staff held me on the table and I gritted my teeth as Dr Doolittle approached wielding a needle that was obviously meant for a rhinoceros. Man! I'm telling you it was huge. Far, far bigger than the tiny thing Badger had. I was so brave though. You'd have been proud of me. I should have been awarded the Pigtoria Cross. Not a single squeal passed my piggy lips as the murderous vet plunged his monstrous, razor sharp spear into a fold of skin at the back of my neck. Then suddenly it was all over and I felt very pleased with myself as I waited for my female staff to pick me up off the table. Then Dr Friggin' Doolittle said "Okay, let's do Billy's nails now." What! Haven't you tortured me enough you heartless bastard. I thought. Then out came the nail clippers, well, that was it. I squealed like a girl and wet myself. Fortunately it all soaked in to the front of my female staff's jeans, so that it looked like she'd had the accident not me.
As we returned to the crowded waiting room, my male staff attempted to alleviate my acute embarrassment by announcing "Look out please. Incontinent woman coming through." He's still got a couple of nights sleeping on the couch to go before he's allowed back into their bed. In any case, if you repeat any of this you're a dead human. Do I make myself perfectly clear?