Let's talk about horror movies for a moment. Now, I am not a particular fan of horror movies as a genre, partly because I don't particularly care for the subjects presented, but mostly because I don't like being made fun of just because I happen to have a very high-pitched scream ("Like a two year-old girls, but more piercing," in the words of one cruel but accurate colleague.) However, over the course of my life I have picked up enough to know some of the common tropes, and -hear me out here- I think I am living through a horror movie. Now, I know what you are thinking: "Ha. Yeah right. A few spiders does not a horror movie make." Well, I can see how you might think that, but just sit right back and prepare to be proved wrong by the Wrong-Prover.
Here are a few of the reasons I am convinced that I am living in a horror movie:
1) I keep finding spiders around my house in every conceivable location.
2) Did you even read what I just wrote? Seriously, that should be a good enough reason for anybody. However, if that's not enough, here are a few more reasons.
3) There are always premonitions and foreshadowings and whatnot that something is going to go badly, right before I, for example, am forced to fight a spider naked in the tub wielding only a shampoo bottle and the tattered shreds of my sanity.
4) I run into a spider (i.e, Monster) and am forced to fight desperately to retain my life and/or sanity. (See reason 3.)
5) There is a lot of screaming and running involved. (See reason 3 again.)
6) You realize there are literal movies that have been made about this scenario, right? Like, more than one. MANY movies have been devoted to the idea that spiders are horrifying and will destroy the world if given the chance.
7) I have reason to believe that this house was built on an ancient indian spider burial ground. (Indian Spider Burial Grounds are a real thing, right?)
There's another aspect of horror movies that I would like to address, though, since we're on the subject. As I have brought up in the past, the motivations of horror movie protagonists are often suspect, at best. When you are spending the night in a haunted mansion, or whatever generally noxious location you are at, how come they never leave immediately? I mean, places with reputations that bad must have them for some reason, right?
I have a theory about that, based on my own experiences. Maybe you move into a new house, and sure, it's a little creepy, what with hearing footsteps in unoccupied rooms, and an occasional spectral face manifesting by your bed and watching you sleep, but overall it's a nice house. Plus, you don't even have to deal with pesky neighbors, because everyone on the neighborhood ignores you (or just crosses themselves in your direction.) Besides, you just spent all that time and effort to move, screw doing that twice in the same year, amirite?
So things go on like that until one day, you realize that the ghostly chill in the air has driven your heating costs up to entirely unreasonable levels, plus that old priest and young priest won't quit coming to your house and begging you, for the sake of your immortal soul, to leave, and on top of that you have had to mop up the blood from the walls like 5 times today. (And don't even get me started on those evil twins that keep wanting you go play with them!) It's unsustainable!
Basically, my life is like that horror movie. I've been going along, dealing with spider after spider, until one day I realize that basically my life consists of mostly killing spiders, with brief breaks in between for eating, sleeping and school.
I'll give you an example. Today I noticed that my nails were getting a little long, and could use a trim. Totally mundane, right? Wrong. Oh so very wrong. I picked up the trash can to clip my nails into, because I am not a complete barbarian, and noticed there was a little spider web at the base of it. "Crazy how these spiders are getting everywhere," I thought to myself as I checked carefully to see if I could spot the little guy. Seeing nothing, I resumed the task at hand. Grasping the nail clippers firmly in one hand, I got ready to cut directly into the trash and THE SPIDER WAS RIGHT THERE IN THE TRASH, STARING AT ME WITH ITS EIGHT BEADY EYES!
You may notice the structure of this is exactly like a jump scare in a horror movie, and that's exactly how it worked out. They build you up, with the hero walking slowly down the hall, slooowly opening the door, letting the music crescendo, and then... Oh, it was just the cat. And then they turn around and HOLYCRAPTHEMONSTERISRIGHTBEHINDYOUAIEEEEEEE!
Anyways, I was of course traumatized and horrified by this experience, but then I killed it with a decorative candle (because it was close by, and there is nothing manlier than using a sheerly decorative implement for raining unholy fury on your enemies) and moved on with my life. That's what has happened to me. I experienced what amounts to basically the second act of a horror movie, and then I was like, "Meh, no biggie," and finished clipping my nails because, hey, they needed it.
And that, I am convinced, is how horror movies happen. Basically, you just become really jaded to all the crazy stuff happening around you, and move on with your life, because what are you supposed to about it? I mean, today I found a spider leg sitting on some papers and was like "Oh, that's weird," and dumped it in the trash. Now, I feel like I shouldn't need to say this, but just in case your flight just got in from planet We Don't Have Spiders Here, What's the Big Deal? and are not accustomed to human customs and culture, THAT IS NOT A NORMAL REACTION TO FINDING A SPIDERS DISEMBODIED LIMB!
But the worst part of all that is this: horror movies don't end with the hero having a jump scare and then laughing it off. Horror movies end when the protagonist confronts the monster, and that monster is usually the biggest, scariest version of whatever crap he's been dealing with through the whole movie. So now I am convinced that there is an enormous spider waiting around somewhere (possibly in my garage) waiting for me to confront it so I can get some closure on this whole thing. Or worse yet, all the spiders in my house are going to gang up and create one giant, Voltron-like Mega-Spider that re-forms every time you cut off one of its limbs. Or it may take the form of a supernatural entity composed of the spirits of the hundreds of spiders I have killed since moving here. I just don't know. But just in case, I am ordering an industrial size barrel of raid, a beekeepers suit, and a military grade flame thrower. And if you hear about the west side of Provo burning to the ground, I just want you to know that I did it to save humanity from The Dark and Ravenous Spider-God Atlach'Nacha.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Spi(der) Hard
Earlier this week, my little sister made a comment about finding a spider in her shoe, and how much she didn't enjoy that experience. To which I replied lightly, perhaps even mockingly. I made it seem like, because there are so many freaking spiders in my house, that I have become accustomed and maybe even hardened to casually finding arachnids in my domicile. Little did I know the horror I would reap as a result of my hubris...
Let me start by saying, as I so often do, that tonights events were preceded by a sign, or a foreshadowing, if you will. After a busy day of pretending like I want to graduate from college at some point in my lifetime, I was ready to relax and unwind. And what better way to do this than by creating sweet music, or alternately, depending on your views, creating an unholy cacophony (those who have heard me play guitar vary widely in their interpretation of the experience.) At any rate, as I was preparing to play, I noticed a tiny movement on my carpet.
(May I digress for a moment and talk about the problem with carpet manufacturers? Specifically, the ones responsible for creating the pattern that was used on the carpet in my home. At first glance, you would say that my carpet looks entirely nondescript, and you would be correct. It is a pattern that entirely lacks descripts. If I were to imagine the conversation that led to its creation, it would go something like this:
Management Person (To the designers): Guys, I know the seventies were a fun time for you, but it's time to reign it in, fellas. No more of this 3 inch shag, alright? It's a new age, and we need something simple to maintain.
Designers (in unison): Awww, come on, do we have to?
MP: Yes, you do. And while you're at it, I want you to go easy on the colors, too. Maybe do something in beige and tan. Something that won't show off dirt too much!
Designers: But it's booooring!
MP: I know, guys, I miss being able to design with chartreuse and lime green as the main colors as much as anyone, but times have changed. It's not what the people want now!
Designers: (muttering rebelliously under their breaths)
MP: Guys, I'll tell you what. I know how much you miss the old times, so... (whispers conspiratorially) maybe throw some brown in there for old times sake, yeah? I know you guys have had fun with brown in the past, right? And maybe, just maybe, if we all work together on this, the company will spring for tickets to Carpet Con out in Topeka this year!
Designers: (In unison): Yay!
Anyways, they did such a good job emulating that "basically the same as the desert" look that they made what basically amounts to perfect wolf spider camouflage throughout the majority of my house. Seriously though, the spiders blend in so well with the carpet that when they hold still, they are effectively invisible. Even when they move, all it does is create the frightening illusion that my carpet grew legs and has decided to walk around, which is something that I do not want, even in the best of circumstances. I mean, I can't even think of a situation where I would want my carpet to be self-mobile. That seems like the kind of thing that Steven King could write a novel about. Anyways, rant over. Back to the good stuff!)
Ummm, so what was I talking about again? Oh yes, I spotted movement on my carpet, and my house being what it is, was entirely unsurprised by the presence of a little wolf spider scuttling along amongst the metric butt-ton of guitar pedals and cables that I consistently try to pass off as a home decorating motif.
And what did I do? I laughed it off! I was all, "Oh, a tiny wolf spider? Pshh, I deal with spiders constantly, who cares?" And then I shredded some Ted Nugent on guitar, just to show the spiders how manly I am! (Just kidding, I don't know any Ted Nugent on guitar. In all honestly, I am only even aware of, like, two Ted Nugent songs. But whatever I played, it was still super macho, probably.)
And then, my hubris at its height, I decided to add some more guitar pedals in, because, hey, my neighbors can only call the cops so many times before dispatch starts ignoring the calls, right? So I go looking through the jungles and thickets of mic stands and amplifiers that constitutes basically all of my living room that isn't actively covered by couches.
And as I searched, looking for that one perfect pedal that would complete my tone, I looked behind my couch and saw a shirt lying on the ground (don't ask why. You'll be happier, and so will I, because you won't be judging me for having shirts behind my couch.) And in my innocence, I thought "maybe my pedal is under that shirt for some reason" So I grabbed the shirt, and...
(Click here before you read any further)
There was not a spider behind the shirt. No, that actually would have been a relief. There were not even two spiders behind the shirt. THERE WERE THREE, COUNT THEM THREE SPIDERS, BEHIND MY COUCH. THERE WERE THREE BEADY-EYED ANTENNA-WAVING EIGHT-LEGGED MONSTROSITIES STARING BACK AT ME AS THOUGH I HAD WALKED INTO A PRIVATE MEETING OF SATANS MINIONS ANONYMOUS! ("Hi, I'm Lothar, Flayer of Damned Souls, and I can't stop flaying damned souls.""Hi, Lothar!")
The worst part of the whole thing was how calm the spiders were that I had discovered their hiding place. They all seemed to be pretty chill with the whole situation. I, on the other hand, was... not. They seemed to take this in a stride as well though. "Whoa, dude," they seemed to be saying. "Chill. You don't see us freaking out when you invite friends over. Also, watch your language. I just got all 8,000,000 of the kids to sleep."
Once I had regained coherence, quit yelling and subdued my gag reflex, I took stock of the situation. It was one against three, and I definitely had the height advantage. However, what I do not have is four extra limbs, fangs, venom, or a multiplicity of eyes. So they definitely had the advantage in all those departments. Plus, their numbers had entirely unnerved me. All I could think of was "What if that one I let go earlier is behind me now? What if he brought friends?"
I had to arm myself, and fortunately, the entry to my house provides a wide variety of options for those trained at the dojo of the sandal. There are at least 5 pairs of boots, flip-flops, and shoes scattered around at any given time. My first thought (naturally) was to go for the flip-flops, based on my observance of their past effectiveness. Unfortunately, the only pair available were not of the sturdy variety. I would say they were more the "my roommate has had these flip-flops as long as I have known him, and they were flimsy foam to start with" variety.
That left me with shoes, or boots. Boots, while great for anti-arachnid stomping, are not great for footwear-fu due to their ungaily dimensions and bulk. So, that left me with shoes. Unfortunately, the experience of finding so many spiders in an unexpected place, combined with my sisters comments from earlier, made me extremely paranoid. I was forced to pick up my own shoes by the very tip, shake them gracefully yet vigorously to ensure a lack of spiders, and then use them like John McLane uses machine guns (Deftly, and often.)
And then... have you ever seen Die Hard? The best one, by which I mean the first one? (Obviously.) Remember how John McLane kills every terrorist in the building, except for the last one who (Spoiler alert) seems to come back to life and is then dispatched by Johns cop buddy Al? This was prevented from being exactly like that by only two things. One, the spiders didn't have sophisticated European accents. And two, my roommate was already in bed, so when I went back and found that first spider, I didn't have a buddy who would dramatically shoot it in the face as it tried to get its revenge. Instead, I was forced to hit it in its stupid spider face with a shoe, much like its comrades.
Remember my last post, where I talked about being super paranoid? I admit that, on occasion, I have been known to exaggerate for the sake of comic effect within the confines of this blog. My fear of spiders has been grossly embellished, nay, perhaps even overblown. But let me tell you truthfully, that after what happened tonight, I am legitimately convinced that every surface in my house that I cannot see with my bare eyes in a given moment is literally swarming with spiders. Every time an air current brushes my leg, it seems to be Shelob's younger sister, hellbent for revenge. I regularly hit the back of my neck, just in case a spider has sneakily managed to land there unnoticed. And should I walk through an actual spiderweb, my calisthenics should instantly register me for the 2016 Olympics brand new "Flailing and Screaming" event. So after all that, all I can say is: Rachael, I'm so very truly sorry for taking the spider in your shoe so lightly. It will never happen again.
Let me start by saying, as I so often do, that tonights events were preceded by a sign, or a foreshadowing, if you will. After a busy day of pretending like I want to graduate from college at some point in my lifetime, I was ready to relax and unwind. And what better way to do this than by creating sweet music, or alternately, depending on your views, creating an unholy cacophony (those who have heard me play guitar vary widely in their interpretation of the experience.) At any rate, as I was preparing to play, I noticed a tiny movement on my carpet.
(May I digress for a moment and talk about the problem with carpet manufacturers? Specifically, the ones responsible for creating the pattern that was used on the carpet in my home. At first glance, you would say that my carpet looks entirely nondescript, and you would be correct. It is a pattern that entirely lacks descripts. If I were to imagine the conversation that led to its creation, it would go something like this:
Management Person (To the designers): Guys, I know the seventies were a fun time for you, but it's time to reign it in, fellas. No more of this 3 inch shag, alright? It's a new age, and we need something simple to maintain.
Designers (in unison): Awww, come on, do we have to?
MP: Yes, you do. And while you're at it, I want you to go easy on the colors, too. Maybe do something in beige and tan. Something that won't show off dirt too much!
Designers: But it's booooring!
MP: I know, guys, I miss being able to design with chartreuse and lime green as the main colors as much as anyone, but times have changed. It's not what the people want now!
Designers: (muttering rebelliously under their breaths)
MP: Guys, I'll tell you what. I know how much you miss the old times, so... (whispers conspiratorially) maybe throw some brown in there for old times sake, yeah? I know you guys have had fun with brown in the past, right? And maybe, just maybe, if we all work together on this, the company will spring for tickets to Carpet Con out in Topeka this year!
Designers: (In unison): Yay!
Anyways, they did such a good job emulating that "basically the same as the desert" look that they made what basically amounts to perfect wolf spider camouflage throughout the majority of my house. Seriously though, the spiders blend in so well with the carpet that when they hold still, they are effectively invisible. Even when they move, all it does is create the frightening illusion that my carpet grew legs and has decided to walk around, which is something that I do not want, even in the best of circumstances. I mean, I can't even think of a situation where I would want my carpet to be self-mobile. That seems like the kind of thing that Steven King could write a novel about. Anyways, rant over. Back to the good stuff!)
Ummm, so what was I talking about again? Oh yes, I spotted movement on my carpet, and my house being what it is, was entirely unsurprised by the presence of a little wolf spider scuttling along amongst the metric butt-ton of guitar pedals and cables that I consistently try to pass off as a home decorating motif.
And what did I do? I laughed it off! I was all, "Oh, a tiny wolf spider? Pshh, I deal with spiders constantly, who cares?" And then I shredded some Ted Nugent on guitar, just to show the spiders how manly I am! (Just kidding, I don't know any Ted Nugent on guitar. In all honestly, I am only even aware of, like, two Ted Nugent songs. But whatever I played, it was still super macho, probably.)
And then, my hubris at its height, I decided to add some more guitar pedals in, because, hey, my neighbors can only call the cops so many times before dispatch starts ignoring the calls, right? So I go looking through the jungles and thickets of mic stands and amplifiers that constitutes basically all of my living room that isn't actively covered by couches.
And as I searched, looking for that one perfect pedal that would complete my tone, I looked behind my couch and saw a shirt lying on the ground (don't ask why. You'll be happier, and so will I, because you won't be judging me for having shirts behind my couch.) And in my innocence, I thought "maybe my pedal is under that shirt for some reason" So I grabbed the shirt, and...
(Click here before you read any further)
There was not a spider behind the shirt. No, that actually would have been a relief. There were not even two spiders behind the shirt. THERE WERE THREE, COUNT THEM THREE SPIDERS, BEHIND MY COUCH. THERE WERE THREE BEADY-EYED ANTENNA-WAVING EIGHT-LEGGED MONSTROSITIES STARING BACK AT ME AS THOUGH I HAD WALKED INTO A PRIVATE MEETING OF SATANS MINIONS ANONYMOUS! ("Hi, I'm Lothar, Flayer of Damned Souls, and I can't stop flaying damned souls.""Hi, Lothar!")
The worst part of the whole thing was how calm the spiders were that I had discovered their hiding place. They all seemed to be pretty chill with the whole situation. I, on the other hand, was... not. They seemed to take this in a stride as well though. "Whoa, dude," they seemed to be saying. "Chill. You don't see us freaking out when you invite friends over. Also, watch your language. I just got all 8,000,000 of the kids to sleep."
Once I had regained coherence, quit yelling and subdued my gag reflex, I took stock of the situation. It was one against three, and I definitely had the height advantage. However, what I do not have is four extra limbs, fangs, venom, or a multiplicity of eyes. So they definitely had the advantage in all those departments. Plus, their numbers had entirely unnerved me. All I could think of was "What if that one I let go earlier is behind me now? What if he brought friends?"
I had to arm myself, and fortunately, the entry to my house provides a wide variety of options for those trained at the dojo of the sandal. There are at least 5 pairs of boots, flip-flops, and shoes scattered around at any given time. My first thought (naturally) was to go for the flip-flops, based on my observance of their past effectiveness. Unfortunately, the only pair available were not of the sturdy variety. I would say they were more the "my roommate has had these flip-flops as long as I have known him, and they were flimsy foam to start with" variety.
That left me with shoes, or boots. Boots, while great for anti-arachnid stomping, are not great for footwear-fu due to their ungaily dimensions and bulk. So, that left me with shoes. Unfortunately, the experience of finding so many spiders in an unexpected place, combined with my sisters comments from earlier, made me extremely paranoid. I was forced to pick up my own shoes by the very tip, shake them gracefully yet vigorously to ensure a lack of spiders, and then use them like John McLane uses machine guns (Deftly, and often.)
And then... have you ever seen Die Hard? The best one, by which I mean the first one? (Obviously.) Remember how John McLane kills every terrorist in the building, except for the last one who (Spoiler alert) seems to come back to life and is then dispatched by Johns cop buddy Al? This was prevented from being exactly like that by only two things. One, the spiders didn't have sophisticated European accents. And two, my roommate was already in bed, so when I went back and found that first spider, I didn't have a buddy who would dramatically shoot it in the face as it tried to get its revenge. Instead, I was forced to hit it in its stupid spider face with a shoe, much like its comrades.
Remember my last post, where I talked about being super paranoid? I admit that, on occasion, I have been known to exaggerate for the sake of comic effect within the confines of this blog. My fear of spiders has been grossly embellished, nay, perhaps even overblown. But let me tell you truthfully, that after what happened tonight, I am legitimately convinced that every surface in my house that I cannot see with my bare eyes in a given moment is literally swarming with spiders. Every time an air current brushes my leg, it seems to be Shelob's younger sister, hellbent for revenge. I regularly hit the back of my neck, just in case a spider has sneakily managed to land there unnoticed. And should I walk through an actual spiderweb, my calisthenics should instantly register me for the 2016 Olympics brand new "Flailing and Screaming" event. So after all that, all I can say is: Rachael, I'm so very truly sorry for taking the spider in your shoe so lightly. It will never happen again.
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Prepare to die...
I think I am being honest when I say no one, least of all me, expected a follow up on my last blog post this soon. "Give it a week," I thought to myself. "Let the novelty wear off. Better yet, give it another six months." That will give people time get nostalgic and wonder, "Hey, what ever happened to that earwig guy?" (Hopefully no actually thinks of me as "The Earwig Guy." If you do, please stop now.) And yet, today inspiration fell into my lap. Literally into my lap! It was horrifying, of course. With that being said, come with me now, on a journey to a happier time. A simpler time. Come with me, to earlier this afternoon...
Oh, life was so good then. I didn't have to work, and I got to sleep in. A beautiful start to the day, made even better by sitting around and eating a late. ( It was ramen, quick boiled and just slightly al dente. A meal fit for an impoverished and lazy king. Actually, it may be time for me to go food shopping soon...) Be that as it may, the day was only slightly spoiled by running into an earwig as I was washing up afterwords. Sitting behind the sink, complacently eyeing me and no doubt thinking in its earwig-y way "A-ha! Here is an easy target. Fat and happy after a late lunch, he will be an easy target later. The earwig high command will be so pleased. I may even get that promotion to Nuisance First Class!"
Well, I made short work of that line of thought, let me tell you what! Thinking quickly, I grabbed my soap dispenser (no shampoo bottles being handy) and let go with a nice left and plenty of follow-through. The earwig expired on the spot, and I went on my way, the day having been saved and my mood only improved by the quickness and painlessness of the victory. At least, that's what I thought! If that had been all, I wouldn't be sitting here, sharing my exploits with you.
What I didn't know is that the first earwig had only been a scout, a mere ruse to get get me off my guard!
It was at this point that I retired to my bath, content in the knowledge of a job well done. I had completed my ablutions, toweled off, and was preparing to attire myself, when some hunch - nay, some PREMONITION caused me to look down before putting my foot through my under-drawers. And there, staring up at me from my underwear, was an earwig. Wait, let me repeat that: THERE. WAS. A. FREAKING. EARWIG. STARING AT ME FROM THE DEPTHS OF MY OWN PERSONAL UNDERWEAR!
Needless to say, my emotions were mixed.
I felt Stunned of course, because there was an earwig in my underwear. Loathing, also because there was an earwig in my underwear. Terror, once more because there was an earwig in my underwear. Bewilderment, for the reason stated above. Sad, because of the same, previously stated, point. But embracing and overarching everything else, like unexpectedly finding out your pillow is a 50 pound slug, was Horror, because (everybody say it with me now) THERE WAS A FREAKING EARWIG IN MY THRICE CURSED UNDERWEAR!
In my previous post I took care to emphasize that while I was forced to squish my earwig adversary beneath the crushing embrace of a shampoo bottle, there were no hard feelings in this encounter. We were enemies, yes, but mixed with that feeling were strains of admiration and, dare I say it? Yes, even companionship. In this encounter, there was nothing of the kind. My reactions were swift, and possibly even a shade heroic. (If there are any single ladies reading this, I want to assure you that my ability to dispose of vermin with a single, steely swipe of my shampoo bottle is second only to the late, great Bruce Lee. I assume this is what all women desire most in a mate, so, uh... sup?)
I started by letting out my own personal version of the rebel yell, which starts low with a series of quick, yelping cries, followed by a gradually ascending warble that increases in timbre until it reaches more of what I would personally describe as a "hellish" volume. This gets me in the mood for battle, and could in no way be described as "girly" or "really, it's just an earwig, will you quit screaming already" by anyone, particularly my roommate.
My morale taken care of, the next move, as any general will tell, is to confront the enemy on your own terms. I did this by gracefully extending the undergarment in question to arms length and shaking it firmly but gracefully until the earwig in question was deposited upon the bathroom floor. Unfortunately, this gesture resulted in my losing sight of the creature for a moment, which resulted in a moment (only a moment!) of panic. My shampoo bottle, favored weapon and stalwart companion in troubled times, lay across the room in the tub, and my way there was blocked a creature who could probably slice my toe clean off with a single swipe of its crushing pinchers, or at least maybe pinch me slightly and give me the heebie-jeebies.
But, there! On the bathroom rug! A movement. The enemy is in sight! Now I just have to figure out how to retrieve my erstwhile weapon while maintaining all of my digits intact and un-pinched. Now, keep in mind that in this moment, due to the circumstances of this attack I am still in the raw, as it were, graced only with what God granted me upon my birth and my natural fortitude.
That made the whole situation somewhat more... Volatile as you can no doubt imagine. Now, I have to face this earwig au naturale, confronting my inner fears and insecurities, as well as the be-pinchered form of my foe. Mano-a-mano, He rushed at me and in that moment, I dug deep. My whole life seemed to flash before my eyes, and I knew what I had to do! I seemed to become one with my primitive ancestors, and just like they did when they were rushed by a bug smaller than their pinky toe, I leaped!
Now was my moment! I had overcome all the odds, and now, my weapon in hand I prepared to meet my foe!
And then with all my force, I brought my weapon to bear and made him a two-dimensional replica of his former self, as imagined by Picasso. It was a glorious moment, and it was only slightly lessened when I remembered that I was completely nude. (I bet you forgot that too. Kind of makes things weird, huh? Try not to think about too much.) Anyways, I think that's what my primitive ancestors would have wanted. In honor of the moment, I have also christened my shampoo bottle "The Vermin-Crusher." It only seems fitting.
Now, though, with my revenge complete, my life has suddenly become full of doubts. Sure, I killed two earwigs today, but surely they were only the outliers. More will come, and my life has become a paranoid dance. I can't bring myself to trust anymore. If there was an earwig hiding in my underwear, where will the next one be? In the tub? (Yes.) Hiding in my shoe? Heaven forbid, in my own bed!? They say Macbeth got pretty paranoid, but all he had to worry about was being assassinated by his friends and having his country turn on him. I mean, it's not like he was in danger of getting a nasty nip on the toe with a pair of disease covered butt-pinchers! I guess I can take comfort in the thought that if my body is found, covered with pinch marks and sans toes, at least no one will question why I am carrying a shampoo bottle covered with earwig corpses.
P.S. If that happens, I request that at least one you come to venge me. Preferably by donning a sweet mask and training for years in remote monasteries with the worlds foremost experts in shampoo bottle-fu.
P.P.S. It turns out there are more good "Princess Bride" Quotes than I have room for in this post, maybe you should just re-watch the movie. I'm going to.
Sunday, June 14, 2015
A Viking Funeral
Well, it's been awhile since I wrote about any spiders, but tonight I had an experience that forced me to hit the keyboard again so that I can regale my (mostly hypothetical) audience with more stories about my vermin related shenanigans. And I can imagine you all out there, hanging on my every word and whispering to each other "What hijinks did the spiders get up to this time? I bet it was super crazy, because all of his other stories about spider hijinks are super crazy!" Well, sorry to disappoint all 5 of you, but todays post has nothing to do with spiders.
Of course, if it's not spiders, your next guess is that it was probably an earwig. And you would be correct, as long as you actually guessed earwig. If you didn't, you probably haven't read this blog before, so maybe you should go read my last post. It's ok, I don't mind waiting. I thought the last one was hilarious when I re-read it just now. It made laugh out loud (Like most of my own jokes. At least there's one person who finds me funny.) Anyways, hopefully your back and ready to hear about some earwig tomfoolery.
So today I got home from some super awesome social activities with tons of friends (most likely) and decided to take advantage of my 1st world status by visiting my indoor, climate controlled commode, and (I'm really trying to be delicate here) taking care of certain, necessary bodily functions. Now this is something that I quite enjoy, taking a little break from the cares of the day, thinking about my life and perhaps doing a little light reading (yeah, I'm one of those people.)
Anyways, my porcelain throne is located in such a way that I am right next to the tub when taking care my necessaries. Of course, you can see where this is going. There I am, contemplating the mysteries of life, the universe and everything, when I take a casual glance to my left and see an earwig, moseying around the inside of my tub. Now, this actually isn't that big a deal at this point (Maybe a 3 on my patented vermin alert scale (1=being aware that bugs are everywhere, but not being able to see one at the moment, to 10=Actually being eaten by army ants.)) I am a grown man, and as long I can see it and it's trapped in the safety of the ceramic super bowl, then things are good.
And for a little while, things remain at that pleasant, friendly state. The earwig (we'll call him Max) almost seems friendly, if you ignore the fact that he's a walking plague carrier and has a huge pair of suspicious pinchers on his nethers. I'm just curious about whether or not he can even climb the porcelain. Imagine my chagrin when I find out that yes, he can. Max is a natural born rock/porcelain climber. Once he gets to the top of the tub, he starts heading in my general direction, and things start getting a little tense. (Maybe a 5 on the vermin alert scale (5=There's a bug, and it's headed in your direction))
Now, I tend to be very relaxed (lazy) person around bugs. If they aren't hurting me, then usually we can co-exist in a mutually beneficial manner. However, it happens that when one is making an airstrike on porcelainistan, (as it were) that one is in a very mobility reduced state. This makes for a vulnerable feeling, and I dealt with this feeling by arming myself with a shampoo bottle (one of my favorite bath-time weapons.) Oh yeah, and I also hit Max in the face with said bottle. It turns out I may overreact when encroached on while negotiating the release of the chocolate hostages.
Now, Max dealt with this rather over the top display of hostility in a rather unexpected manner. He literally went and curled up in the corner. Now granted, we are talking about pincher-butted little disease vector, but I must say it kind of disarmed me. I felt little bad. Like, if someone barges in on you while you're assembling Lincoln logs (so to speak) it's embarrassing, sure, but most people don't react by braining the trespasser with a shampoo bottle (as far as I know. I mean, maybe you do. I won't judge, since now I'm a member of that club.) However, at that point I was willing to let bygones be bygones. I even put away the shampoo bottle, and went back to doing some paperwork for Mr. Brown.
At this point though, Max decided he'd had enough. Realizing he was on deaths door, he decided the only way to redeem himself was through Kamikaze, trading his own life for the toe of his adversary (I assume.) At any rate, he came out of his corners, pinchers ablaze and ready to make some trouble. (6 on the vermin alert scale) Let me tell you, seldom has any man grabbed a shampoo bottle quicker. Now it was man versus earwig, eye to compound eye and no holds barred. Max was injured, but I was hampered by my pants being on the floor and having to maintain a constant high-pitched scream. (To keep my morale up. Not because I am in any way intimidated by a creature 1/4 of an inch long.)
And then I struck. A lesser earwig would have curled his legs up and expired, but Max was no ordinary earwig. He shook it off and made a valiant shot at cutting off my toe with his pinchers. I responded by screaming like a little girl and flailing wildly with the shampoo bottle. But one of the blows hit! That should finish him, I thought. But I had underestimated my opponent. Pinchers held high, Max kept coming. Truly, a noble effort. But this time, I took my time. Only whimpering a tiny bit, I aimed and landed a third hit. At last, Max lay still, defeated only by the cunning of his adversary. (Well that, and because I'm like, 1000 times bigger than him. But mostly my cunning.)
Needless to say, such bravery should be rewarded. Max was my enemy, but in the moment of his death he became something more. He became a very flat, unresponsive enemy. I would do for him what I hope my friends would do for me, if I died attacking a total stranger in a bathroom. I scooped him up with the softest kleenex I had, and gently set him afloat, to join his ancestors in the excrement encrusted pipes of their sewer Valhalla. He died the death all earwigs wish: squished on the bottom of a shampoo bottle accompanied by the shrill, dog-deafening screams of his enemies. Rest in peace, you magnificent pincher-butted son of a gun!
Of course, if it's not spiders, your next guess is that it was probably an earwig. And you would be correct, as long as you actually guessed earwig. If you didn't, you probably haven't read this blog before, so maybe you should go read my last post. It's ok, I don't mind waiting. I thought the last one was hilarious when I re-read it just now. It made laugh out loud (Like most of my own jokes. At least there's one person who finds me funny.) Anyways, hopefully your back and ready to hear about some earwig tomfoolery.
So today I got home from some super awesome social activities with tons of friends (most likely) and decided to take advantage of my 1st world status by visiting my indoor, climate controlled commode, and (I'm really trying to be delicate here) taking care of certain, necessary bodily functions. Now this is something that I quite enjoy, taking a little break from the cares of the day, thinking about my life and perhaps doing a little light reading (yeah, I'm one of those people.)
Anyways, my porcelain throne is located in such a way that I am right next to the tub when taking care my necessaries. Of course, you can see where this is going. There I am, contemplating the mysteries of life, the universe and everything, when I take a casual glance to my left and see an earwig, moseying around the inside of my tub. Now, this actually isn't that big a deal at this point (Maybe a 3 on my patented vermin alert scale (1=being aware that bugs are everywhere, but not being able to see one at the moment, to 10=Actually being eaten by army ants.)) I am a grown man, and as long I can see it and it's trapped in the safety of the ceramic super bowl, then things are good.
And for a little while, things remain at that pleasant, friendly state. The earwig (we'll call him Max) almost seems friendly, if you ignore the fact that he's a walking plague carrier and has a huge pair of suspicious pinchers on his nethers. I'm just curious about whether or not he can even climb the porcelain. Imagine my chagrin when I find out that yes, he can. Max is a natural born rock/porcelain climber. Once he gets to the top of the tub, he starts heading in my general direction, and things start getting a little tense. (Maybe a 5 on the vermin alert scale (5=There's a bug, and it's headed in your direction))
Now, I tend to be very relaxed (lazy) person around bugs. If they aren't hurting me, then usually we can co-exist in a mutually beneficial manner. However, it happens that when one is making an airstrike on porcelainistan, (as it were) that one is in a very mobility reduced state. This makes for a vulnerable feeling, and I dealt with this feeling by arming myself with a shampoo bottle (one of my favorite bath-time weapons.) Oh yeah, and I also hit Max in the face with said bottle. It turns out I may overreact when encroached on while negotiating the release of the chocolate hostages.
Now, Max dealt with this rather over the top display of hostility in a rather unexpected manner. He literally went and curled up in the corner. Now granted, we are talking about pincher-butted little disease vector, but I must say it kind of disarmed me. I felt little bad. Like, if someone barges in on you while you're assembling Lincoln logs (so to speak) it's embarrassing, sure, but most people don't react by braining the trespasser with a shampoo bottle (as far as I know. I mean, maybe you do. I won't judge, since now I'm a member of that club.) However, at that point I was willing to let bygones be bygones. I even put away the shampoo bottle, and went back to doing some paperwork for Mr. Brown.
At this point though, Max decided he'd had enough. Realizing he was on deaths door, he decided the only way to redeem himself was through Kamikaze, trading his own life for the toe of his adversary (I assume.) At any rate, he came out of his corners, pinchers ablaze and ready to make some trouble. (6 on the vermin alert scale) Let me tell you, seldom has any man grabbed a shampoo bottle quicker. Now it was man versus earwig, eye to compound eye and no holds barred. Max was injured, but I was hampered by my pants being on the floor and having to maintain a constant high-pitched scream. (To keep my morale up. Not because I am in any way intimidated by a creature 1/4 of an inch long.)
And then I struck. A lesser earwig would have curled his legs up and expired, but Max was no ordinary earwig. He shook it off and made a valiant shot at cutting off my toe with his pinchers. I responded by screaming like a little girl and flailing wildly with the shampoo bottle. But one of the blows hit! That should finish him, I thought. But I had underestimated my opponent. Pinchers held high, Max kept coming. Truly, a noble effort. But this time, I took my time. Only whimpering a tiny bit, I aimed and landed a third hit. At last, Max lay still, defeated only by the cunning of his adversary. (Well that, and because I'm like, 1000 times bigger than him. But mostly my cunning.)
Needless to say, such bravery should be rewarded. Max was my enemy, but in the moment of his death he became something more. He became a very flat, unresponsive enemy. I would do for him what I hope my friends would do for me, if I died attacking a total stranger in a bathroom. I scooped him up with the softest kleenex I had, and gently set him afloat, to join his ancestors in the excrement encrusted pipes of their sewer Valhalla. He died the death all earwigs wish: squished on the bottom of a shampoo bottle accompanied by the shrill, dog-deafening screams of his enemies. Rest in peace, you magnificent pincher-butted son of a gun!
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