Apologies to Whoever’s Still Listening
The following is R-rated for gruesome depictions of violence.
This late in the summer, I’ve been injected with more mosquito drool than any other fluid. All the rain we’ve had, and they’ve had the better part of four months to poke their proboscises into legs, arms, and neck — whatever they call those nasty probes — and I could go on. My body has become a toxic wasteland of every virus they carry, and evidently they can carry a bushel full.
Hate is a bad thing. My long-ago friend, Scot, said every insect has its purpose.
But their purpose stops at my skin, providing I can swat the little buggers fast enough. Even when the splat produces blood, it’s better than letting them feed. This far in life, I’m ready to call them out.
Some fool didn’t think we had enough of our homegrown pests, so they went and imported those evil little suckers from Asia who like feeding in the daylight. Carbon dioxide — you like a little of that? Yeah, well enjoy. Splat.
Layla the husky seems unperturbed when she trots out to find a spot of grass she hasn’t already peed on — many more times than seems necessary given the insect hoard hovering just beyond the screen door. I can’t imagine a single insect proboscis has ever bothered to wade through all her fur.
I read an article claiming the double coats huskies wear keep them cool. No kidding. Why so many women wear their mink in July, right?
I apologize to whoever designed this fuckup. Sincerely, I do, but His engineering crew wasn’t so great that they had to go and come up with these little bitches. Beta testing, my ass.
The brain is ticking, and the legs ain’t keeping. But before I die, I intend to take out those last three little devils before the first frost comes. Just let ’em land. I’m probably no more important than they are in the scheme of things, whose ever scheme it is, but I need to tell you: I hate mosquitoes.
Sorry Scot.
