Sunday, June 6, 2010

The Hickoryville Horror

Needless to say my home isn’t like anyone else’s. I keep spiders on the prowl, I don’t take down their webs, and I do not have a problem with pest insects, The last can of poison I bought for bugs was a couple of years ago when the paper wasps that had built a nest about the backdoor broke the treaty we had entered into when they began their homesteading. I like wasps. They are great critters. I do not mind them around the house at all, but if they are going to build on my house they have to let me live in peace too. When it was a small nest and there were only a few wasps everything was fine. They reached the point where they thought they had me outgunned and the bastards ambushed me. I got hit half a dozen times so I went to the hardware stores and bought one of those shoot-from-the-next-area-code spray cans and took them out. Right now there are no less than three wasp nests on the front porch so we’ll have to see how this plays out.
Lately, I’ve been working more hours at work than the pope trying to hide pedophile priests and the house is beginning to look like a man with three dogs and no time to clean lives here. Worse, I have no time to shop so I haven’t been on a serious grocery run in a week or so. The last time I went I got apples, and grapes, and bananas and now I am all out of fruit. About three days ago I started noticing those tiny little flies usually associated with fruit hanging out. Every day there seemed to be more but I haven’t had time to worry about them until today. What the hell? There’s all in the damn kitchen where are my spiders and where are they coming from and why are they here? I opened up the recycle trashcan, the place I toss all things biodegradable, and all my answers were questioned.

I had totally forgotten about the two apples that had gone bad, and I had tossed them…damn, how long ago? Out boiled a cloud of tiny fruit flies, billions and billions, and all I could do was grab the can and run outside with it. Running in the house must be preceded by checking to see where the dogs are, and are not, and yelling, “MOVE!” or they will stand there with goofy looks on their faces and I’ll trip over them. You will notice in the previous part of this narrative, the yelling of “MOVE!” was not noted, and in fact, did not occur. I tripped over Sam, and it looked all the world like a drunk man going down trailing black smoke. Mayday! Mayfly! Mayfly! Seeing how I’m off today and need to cut the grass, it was raining buckets, sans flies, and as I staggered into the yard, I wondered if there was a god cruel enough to strike me dead with lightning while I’m trying to get a bucket of flies out of the house. Of course, anytime I leave the house I have to tell Bert to stay in or he’ll get out and just because it’s raining all three follow and now I have a bucket of flies and three wet dogs.

I leave the bucket in the rain, in the yard, and take the down drippy mutts inside. The flies, having seen a good thing, are still there. Now I’ve at least cut the supply train off, and I’ve carted out a good hundred million but there is an infestation of them in the kitchen and there isn’t a drop of poison in the house since I stopped using High Fructose Corn Syrup. I did what I always do when this sort of problem presents itself; I fire off the torch.

Years ago someone gave me a really large bag of birdseed that had been sitting in their garage. I took it in, and just tossed it into the corner of the room. An hour later ten billion tiny little maggots began to leave the bag, and wander the earth, or at least my living room. Yes, I did fire up the torch because there was a billion of them. This time I figured it would work as well, but I forgot the one true number one rule of fire and that is nearly nude people and flame are rarely a good combination, and frequently a poor choice in mixture.

No, I was not nude merely nearly. I had one a pair of shorts, and a stern look of consternation. Okay, have you ever smoked pot? Do you remember smoking pot, nevermind, that’s a bad question to ask pot smokers, but have you ever smoked pot which naked, maybe with someone you’ve just had sex with, and you’re thinking, truly, in all good sooth, things just cannot get much better than this, and suddenly the joint explodes because a seed blew up, and the woman that was once lying next to you is now trying to get the better part of a mini conflagration off parts of her body hitherto exposed for viewing in a very nice way? If you’re totally lost right now, I’m sorry, but if you’re grinning right now…

Anyway, here I am waving the torch around the swarm and what makes me think of the pot seed explosion is one of the dying flies kamikazes me in a very tender area of my chest. Ow! Next thing I know I have a matching set. OW! Finally another lands right where the first one hit and it dawns on me that laughing at a woman back in the 1970’s because a seed had caused a small forest fire is now coming back to haunt me in a very tiny and painful way.

Plan B is to open all the door and let the flies fly. This requires me to sit and watch the swarm hover a bit, but it doesn’t really hurt.

Take Care,
Mike

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