I hate bugs.
I hate all kinds of bugs. There isn’t a bug that I particularly enjoy holding in my hands, not even ladybugs (this is residual from the Great Ladybug Scourge of 1993 in Texas in which we would wake up with ladybugs in our hair). Caterpillars are scritchy. Lightning bugs move. Pill bugs roll up and you can’t do anything but flick ’em hard and listen for their fading screams of terror.
Butterflies? They fly. You know how I feel about the flying things. I mean, I’m not out there trying to punch butterflies where they rest, but if one lands on my nose I will show it who is the boss of this Earth.
The people. The people are the boss, bugs.
Now, I am also not one of those people who screams like a sissy when I am in the vicinity of a bug. I will remain calm and I will destroy the bug with a rock solid steely determination.
Centipedes get stomped with boots until their legs are dismembered.
Stink bugs get either sucked or flushed, depending on the proximity of the Oreck.
Spiders get annihilated with Raid.
Ants enjoy a relaxing stay at the ant motel where we serve rat poison for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and two daily snacks. Free of charge.
That’s IN the house, mind you. Out of the house, I generally leave bugs alone.
AS LONG AS THEY LEAVE ME ALONE.
There are two bugs that are not leaving me alone right now, and it’s not the stink bugs.
The first are the lightning bugs. They have taken to holding early evening orgies en masse on my SUV so much so that when I first get in my car, I have to use my windshield wipers to swipe their conjoined sexually frantic bodies away. It’s hard to drive, you see, with all that bug sex happening right in your line of vision. However, they’re really just bothering my car and unless I find a hundred pairs of them engaged in questionable activities on my actual person, I’ll allow them to continue with their sexually promiscuous ways.
The second are what I have determined to be Carpenter Bees. Or as I call them Sons of Satan.
They are as big as small birds and relentless in their dive-bombing of me while I am working outside. They hover in place like hummingbirds and just sort of size you up. Staring at you. Buzzing. Looking. Thinking, “SOON.”
I tried shooing them away but they are persistent. They will fly away for ten seconds to shoot tequila and then return to their hovering, buzzing, looking ways.
And then they come at you and your body and your face and they attempt to burrow into your exposed flesh. I believe.
I’m not carrying any nectar so why else would they do this? They’re either motivated by nectar or evil, and in this case, I’m positive it’s evil.
I got tired shooing at them so I resorted to smacking them with my tennis racket and I gotta tell you. That shit works.
Now when I tweeted this, there were some that were sad. Frowny face. I’m killing bees. Harshly. Cutting their bodies into perfect cubes with one fell swoop.
No, I’m sending a message to divebombing assholes who have no respect for my personal space.
There is a difference.
I’m not a horrible person. If they want to go and have all kinds of crazy giant bee sex all over my car, then have at it. I won’t interrupt them even to offer them teeny tiny condoms or cigarettes or wee little pamphlets on bee STDs. “Bee Safe!” they would read.
But a bee as big as a baby mouse, ramming into my belly button at full speed despite the fact that I am thousands of times bigger and frantically waving my arms, gets introduced to my friend Wilson.
He never misses and he never apologizes.
Currently, I’m up 40-love.