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!
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