Beethoven's Ninth Racket

Just this morning I'd scraped away enough of my bedding to see the newspaper that lines the bottom of my cage, and who should I see staring up at me but Robert Mugabe, with that nasty, mean little Hitler moustache of his. I was about to deposit a satisfying pile of bush chocolate on his face when something else caught my eye. It was a item concerning a sixty-three year old Californian man who had tried to operate on his own hernia with a butter knife. A butter knife!! Apparently he'd already cut his stomach open with this viciously sharp blade and was poking about inside his guts when his wife found him.
 "Oh hello dear. What are you up to?"
"My elbows in my own guts."
Anyway she phoned 911 and then while they waited for the paramedics he removed the knife. The story didn't say whether or not she sewed him up with one of her crochet hooks, but I like to think that she did. The newspaper went on to say that the man was placed "in a psychiatric hold". Not sure what that is - probably a headlock.

Then I got to thinking My God! Is the American public health system so bad that people are reduced to performing their own surgery with a butter knife? Why don't the Republicans want a decent public health system? Are they scared that if people live long enough they'll eventually vote Democrat. I can't get my piggy head around it. Sure it's expensive, but then so are wars and the Republicans don't seem to be too averse to those. In any case, a good, well funded health system pays for itself long term. You just have to take the long term view instead of just looking towards the next election. Ah well, that's politicians for you. They all need their fingers biting and their laps peeing on.

Mr Mugabe never did get his face covered in bush chocolate, (Which he certainly deserves more than most.) because I was then distracted by a godawful noise coming from the other room. For a moment I though my male staff was taking a leaf from our Californian friend's book and was castrating himself with a butter knife. But no; a moment later he strolled casually back showing no signs of an injury. He peered into my cage and said,  "Are you enjoying the music Billy?" By way of reply I grumbled at him and shot into my little red shelter and put my paws over my ears. He told me that the racket was Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. Hell's bells! Whoever this Beethoven bloke was you'd think after the first eight he might have realised that he was making a bloody racket. I hate this thing that humans call music. It's just noise to me. Maybe I'm tone deaf or something. Badger quite likes it. He sits in his little blue shelter tapping his foot and pretending to play a violin as if he's some sort of rodent version of Andre Rieu. His black and white fur even makes him look as though he wearing a tuxedo. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, If music be the food of love - I'm going on a diet.