Bugs Must Die

"Hit it right out of the air!" The big green fly with the Vincent Price head, I'm talking about. Damn thing's been bugging me, pun intended, for two days. It wouldn't land and give me a clean shot so I knew I'd have to get him in flight and I just did that. I'm not feeling an ounce of remorse either. Usually I say something like sorry old sock when I snuff out a bug, because I'm a big hearted "we are all one" kind of a Zenmeister dude, but not this time. This time I had the revenge factor working.

A short while after hosing down Nikita late Thursday afternoon, I shucked my wet blue jeans for a pair of dry old sweats. Unbeknownst to me these cotton comfys were temporary shelter for a bug of some sort. I'm guessing spider, but that's not beknownst to me either as it somehow made its escape without being detected. Before departing for, I'm guessing again, some other article of my clothing, said insecto took a nasty chunk from the back of my knee right atop one of the tendons that runs along back there. I did not sleep well Thursday night. There was a burning, itching it's got to be scratched sensation that conspired to keep me awake for much of my scheduled dream time that was to include slam dunks and a hole in one. Still, I got through Friday morning with nought but a sore leg and more of the annoyingly hard to ignore itching. It was late Friday afternoon when a pain moved up my thigh from the knee and a fever arrived. I mentioned this to Ramon and he told me he had watched a show about spiders on Animal Planet only the night before and, considering my symptoms, he gave me two hours. Luckily, England was playing a friendly with Brazil on the telly so I knew my last hours would be well spent. The two national teams tied and I survived all the way until the third inning of the Red Sox Yankee game before the fever and assorted other symptoms drove me from the couch to my bed where I thought to make progress in the book I was reading before my demise.

And that, of course, is when the fly made its first appearance. 'jever try to read with a fat noisy fly doing a passable impression of a Japanese Zero kamikazy-ing about your head? It requires more will than I had at the moment. Add in Gus snapping his jaws when the bug blew by and to my fevered brain I had already passed and was paying the price for all my sins. Okay, maybe just that one back in '67. I was finally forced to turn out the lights which calmed the fly and, blissfully, induced my own sleep. I awoke a few hours later in a puddle of persperation, fever gone. It was then I vowed revenge.

The fly is just the beginning, ha ha ha ha ha. Be warned you entomological pains in the asses, I am on the hunt. No more Mr. Nice guy, ha ha ha ha ha. I have my swatter, I have my Raid and I have thick soles. Bugs must die, ha ha ha ha! Bugs must die!

I may have a few lingering symptoms.