I hate bugs and guess what? The feeling is mutual because bugs hate me. In fact, they might be in cahoots with the pigeons.
First I should tell you that if it crawls, jumps, flies, buzzes or even quietly and greenly prays, it is a bug. Spiders are bugs. Ants are bugs. Grasshoppers are bugs.
I hate bugs. All of ’em.
My earliest comedic writings were written while in college in Texas and were missives I would send to my family via some archaic form of communication called cc mail that if I recall correctly required a user to insert a coin, pull a lever, say a chant, and then push a pedal in order to send an email. I might be remembering that incorrectly.
Regardless, my emails were all about how the bugs in Texas were bigger, were badder (Hello, flesh melting brown recluse spider!) and boy, did they all have it in for me.
I know they had it in for me because I was regularly dive-bombed by large furry flying buzzing possibly venom-spitting things while on the tennis courts. In fact, I recall one particular email was about how I was walking from the courts to the athletic building when one of the giant furry flying buzzing definitely cackling things flew directly into my forehead. I mean, BAM! It played Chicken with me and I lost. Or maybe I won. I don’t know the rules of Chicken, but THE THING BONKED INTO MY FOREHEAD, fell to the ground, dusted itself off all, “OMG. The NERVE of this girl.” and flew away to spread the word that I was never to be left alone.
From that day on, it wasn’t unusual for the tennis coach to look out on the courts to see all of the team practicing overhead slams save for one curly-haired girl who was maniacally and frantically using her tennis racket to swat away at something she was sure was buzzing around her head.
It was also in Texas that I learned that cockroaches can fly. Did you know that? Cockroaches. They fly. In Texas, I don’t care if you live in a shack on a hill or a mansion on a 400-acre ranch, if it is past midnight and you turn on the light in your kitchen, you will see cockroaches skitter out of sight, possibly carrying a can of beer.
It is unnerving.
The way I learned cockroaches fly is that one was on the wall above my television in my dorm, so I opened my closet to get a shoe to kill that bastard, bent down to retrieve my boot, stood back up, turned around to face the wall again only to find the thing flying at my face. Directly. Definitely cackling. This time I won Chicken. Or maybe lost. Because I ducked out of the way just in time for it to miss my forehead and land somewhere in my closet.
Let me say that again. IT LANDED IN MY CLOSET. Never ever to be found again.
I’m sure it spent many hours of many nights for many months doing the Electric Slide on my hair while I slept.
So I learned that bugs should die immediately and never be given the chance to dance on your hair.
And I don’t just kill bugs. I OVERKILL bugs, if there is such a thing. There are three ways I’ll do this:
1. The shoe
Spiders and other such bugs will meet their maker, that is to say Satan, by way of my shoe bottoms. I overkill them by not just tapping them until I hear their little brains explode, but by smacking them over and over again until every single leg is separated from their bodies. This is because nine time out of ten, if you leave one leg attached, the bug is still alive.
No legs is a sure sign a bug is dead.
Raid is used for bugs that will make a squishing sound if I step on them. I can’t tolerate bug squishing sounds or even worse, bug crusty shell cracking sounds.
And I don’t just spray the Raid; I empty the can on the bug. I will spray until the bug and a three-foot surrounding perimeter are coated in a while foam and then I’ll keep spraying until I see some sort of internal goo come out of the bug’s mouth.
Puking guts out is a sure sign a bug is dead.
3. The Broom
The broom is used for bugs that I don’t wish to get within four feet of for fear that they will leap at me or otherwise recognize my face before I do them in. In addition, the thwack-thwack sound is a nice mask for any possible squishing or cracking sound. It isn’t unusual to find me with a kitchen broom in hand beating the literal shit out of a cricket in my dining room. And those badboys do NOT die easily.
Recently, one of those previously mentioned fuzzy flying buzzing cackling definitely Satan-loving things was annoying me while I was working in the yard. Buzzing within earshot all coughbitchcough. So I grabbed one of my trusty tennis rackets and went Venus Williams. It landed on my tile-floored patio. And it was moving a little bit. Gasping. Begging. So I got the broom. And I beat the thing so hard for so long that I cracked several of the tiles into a hundred pieces.
So next summer I’ve got to pay to have the whole patio floor ripped up and replaced.