I’d like to tell you a story. Can I tell you a story? I’m going to tell you a story.
The other morning as I prepared for the day to be a good day, while taking my morning constitutional, reading the stories that populate my “News” app, and generally enjoying a few moments of peaceful reflection, I looked to my right and nearly had a heart attack.
Right next to my trash can looked to be a spider. And not just a run of the mill daddy long legs, no, this was the Kraken of spiders. It was the size of Kanye’s ego. It was huge. I’d never seen a spider this big before. And then when I came down from the realization that everybody in my house was going to die at the hands of this spider if I didn’t step into the arena with it, I realized that he was maybe the size of a quarter, but big enough to make me consider moving.
After finishing what I presumed to be my last constitutional, I walked towards this violator, prepared to throw hands and anything I could find at him and hope that my aim would be true lest he decide to attack me as my family heard my dying screams before they too were eaten by this quarter-sized spider. Fortunately, it turned out that the intruder wasn’t a spider after all, but a furry piece of some stuffed animal that one of my children decided to use to prank me. That’s the determination I came to because why ELSE would this piece of fur that was spider shaped be resting still in this place if not for the sole purpose of scaring the bejesus out of me? Kids, man.
See, I don’t do bugs. Actually, let’s be more accurate: As the man in the house, I’ve killed more bugs than I care to remember. Not that my home is infested, its just that if there IS a bug in the house, I recognize it as my manly duty to be the person who disposes of said bug with as little attention and disruption to the peaceful decorum as possible.
I just prefer not to do bugs. Roaches. Spiders. Waterbugs. Anything that looks like it might murder me then laugh is out. I respect them. And I realize circle of life and shit. Fuck that. I hate bugs. Bugs don’t respect the natural order of things, or my mortgage. I pay it. They don’t. Yet every so often I’ll be doing something peaceful and innocuous like reading the Bible or clipping my toenails and something will move in the background. I’ll look and nothing is moving. I go back to Joshua fitting the battle of Jericho or the toe jam and then something moves again and now I have to address it. I hate addressing it. Spiders in particular.
Some years ago, I took my daughter to this lizard and reptile show in Alexandria, Virginia, and they also brought along a spider that I’m pretty sure would eat everybody reading this. My uncles used to have tarantulas in Michigan until they disappeared into the basement, at which point I never went back to visit. They also had a boa constrictor that ALSO got out. Zookeepers they were not, my uncles. In my heart, I like to think that the tarantula and boa ate each other, restoring balance back to the universe.
Back to this spider. So they’re showing lizards and shit, then they pull out this big ass spider, that no lie, was probably the size of Shaquille O’Neal. Okay, maybe Shaq’s hand. Point is, this thing was big enough that if you saw it in your house, you’d absolutely leave and potentially burn your house down, fine collectibles and family heirlooms and all. You’d be afraid that if something that big was in your house, is there another one? Noap.
To quote the Double X Posse, I’m not gon’ be able to do it.
I went on stage and the animal person put this spider on his hand and I almost lost it. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?
But she did and I decided that, sorry, but she was not my kind of girl. More sorry, not sorry.
I grew up in urban areas which means that bugs weren’t exactly foreign to my life. They’re everywhere. That’s fine. As long as they do them and I do me then it’s all gravy. I feel the same way about rodents.
Listen, if we’re sitting down watching Netflix, say we’re watching episodes of Greenleaf or something, and a mouse scurries along the baseboard of the wall. First, we will both be jumping onto the couch. I promise you that. THEN, if you’re a woman, you might be inclined to expect me to go into Man-Mode and attempt to catch, kill, and dispose of said mouse. And I promise you that my response would be, “maybe he’ll leave.” And I will resume watching whatever it is that we were watching. I promise.
I’ve never had to confront a rat. I will never confront a rat. But if a rat shows up in my house – and I have no idea why this would be a thing – I’m calling the police. Straight up. And they better send the fire department, too. 500 Degreez.
Point is, I just used a wee bit over 900 words to tell you that I’m a grown ass man who hates bugs and tiny (THEY’RE ALL ACTUALLY HUGE) things that crawl. Because sharing is caring. Um, look out for Detox.