I fear all things with more than five legs (except tables and chairs).
Saturday, 1 p.m.
I strode confidently through the kitchen and out the back patio door, non-descript parcel in hand. I wore a wide grin on my face, the grin worn by a man who will soon avenge years of torture. I knelt down on the cement square just through the door and delicately uncased “Widowmaker,” my dad’s pesticide applicator. Next, from the flapping white garbage bag, I pulled 24 ounces of Ortho’s finest biological agent and a measuring cup to aid in dilution. I stood up the tank, deliberately pouring too much death juice into the opening (laughing as I imagined the heightened dose of punishment causing spiders to writhe and smoke, much like John Goodman’s special blend in Arachnophobia). Next I ventured behind the spider and cricket infested bushes, seeking the spigot that would add precious water, the last ingredient in my deadly concoction; my fear of said spiders and crickets reduced my determined gait to an effeminate prance.
Soon I was ready to do my deadly business. I pumped the applicator, the pressure providing conveyance, and grasped the nozzle. My finger itched to deliver the payload. I darted the nozzle between bushes and underneath the myriad of detritus and debris that litters our back yard. I felt confident that no multi-legged beasts would be able to penetrate my thick coat of Ortho…soon my confidence was undermined, however, when I looked up at the eves. Lo, a spider metropolis loomed not three feet above my head! I swear I saw them laugh as they formulated plans to sneak into the house while I sleep and lay their wretched eggs in my ears and mouth. My reason was overcome with rage as I turned the nozzle upwards and yelled, “To hell with you, spawn of Beelzebub!” The breach in reason came when I failed to realize that as the pesticide assailed the nerves of the dastardly arachnids, they would effectively become spider epileptics, jerking around, contorting spasmodically, and, worst of all, falling uncontrollably into my hair. I theorized that perhaps they would even become incontinent with their offspring and spray eggs all over my unprotected pate. Dropping the applicator, I screamed and ran into the lawn, slapping myself all over, yelling, “Get ‘em off me! Get ‘em offa me!”
After I regained my composure (but not my dignity), I returned to the scene only to see that the spiders were all still basically in their same place and had only moved slightly. I continued the eradication, ran out of juice half way through. This was what some might call poetic justice because I needed to refill the jug with water and the spigot was one of the first places I sprayed. Now I would have to return to my own swath of destruction where countless denizens of the bushes were dropping from the eaves and writhing uncontrollably. I pranced in and out of the bushes even more effeminately and finally had my second (particularly strong) batch made. I finished the job and returned to the “livelier” spots and re-sprayed, noticing that droves of now physically retarded crickets and beetles were hopping around in the last stages of death. I grinned and felt avenged.
Thus concludes the confessions of an avenging arachnophobe. Seriously people, before you judge, tell me you never felt a sick satisfaction about spraying Raid on an insect and watching it die. Right? I need help.