Yesterday as I was doing weighted jumping jacks in my living room (thank you, Jillian Michaels), I was accosted. I saw it coming but there was very little I could do as each of my arms was moving at a fairly substantial speed towards the sides of my body with heavy metal rods. Before I could stop it, the aggressor had latched onto my chest. I screamed, though, according to my eldest, it was more of a “squeal.” These “squeals” of mine no longer alarm. Apparently that loud sound of sheer terror which spontaneously emits from my mouth is only a casual sound, like a yawn, and requires no immediate action on the part of my loving family. I dropped the weights and ran for my best friend, the insect vacuum. That’s right, I vacuumed the winged bloodsucker up. He was a big boy, too. As he spun angrily about in the tube, I gave it a wee shake, a sort of “thank you” if you will for leaving me with the blotch that had already begun to itch.
As I released the little craphead outside, it dawned on me that there ought to be a Special Place where crapheads go after they die. I’m not going to say “A Special Place in Hell” because who am I to condemn anyone to the fiery pits? No, just an inconvenient Special Place where they sit interminably (think doctor’s office lobby) until someone wise and forbearing can see them in a special examination room. There all the inconsiderate things that have been done by Craphead will be explained. Things that have led them to such an ignominious title. For instance, things like attacking a woman while she’s working out, sweating and breathing like a water buffalo with emphysema. “That wasn’t very considerate, was it, Mr.Mosquito?”
This Special Place wouldn’t just be for insects, though there would be a preponderance of them: the spider that launched itself on me the other day; the tick who, nine years ago, dropped from a tree branch and crawled about on my four-year-old’s head until I, petrified, had to call my husband home from work to deal with it; the grasshopper the size of a Buick who flew at my face while I was trapped inside an SUV; the flying cockroaches of Hawaii who cause me to sit on my feet in the finest of dining establishments; the woman in the white Volvo who swung her passenger door into the side of my car, denting it and, when I gasped, had the nerve to say, “WHAT? It didn’t leave a mark!”; the Hummer driving, Botox-riddled, bleached blond, orange-skinned, silicone-loaded hag who nearly ran a child over in the parking lot the other day just so she could get to a parking spot before anyone else; the insurance company who decided that my “seasonal” allergies are worth a 25% raise in my premium every month; people who leave their cell phones on during school performances; and, rude Red Sox fans.
These short-listed crapheads will all gather in the lobby, sit on uncomfortable chairs, flip through three-year old magazines that have the last page of every good article ripped out (Why does this happen? Who does this?), and be ignored for months on end until they can be seen and lectured. Only then, when they understand the Magnitude of their Crapitude, can they be released from the Special Place, as better, kinder beings. Think of it as a wastewater treatment plant.
Well, I’d like to fantasize further about this but Waffles the Cat is batting at something crawling up the wall. I have to go grab the bug sucker. This won’t end well for anybody.