Thursday, September 1, 2011

Return of the Dead-Eye

 Morning Readers,
     Some people think I'm stupid. Most of those people are spiders. Usually it's the ones who haven't heard of me, or, as I'm known on the the streets of the spider underground, El Zapato De La Muerte - The Shoe of Death. My dear Readers, you know how I feel about the class Arachnida. And after I issued a clear warning, earlier this summer, it's nothing short of amazing that any of them would dare cross my threshold. But, like I always say:

      "Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice....well, you won't, because I'm coming to kill you with my Land's End relax-fit moccasin."

     Too cocky, that's my problem. The day before yesterday, I'd noticed someone had moved into my fake palm tree, the thick webs making it look like a Christmas tree. Eyes narrowed, I whispered, "Christmas is coming early for you, my friend...and Santa's ain't bringing you a shiny new firetruck.."

     Ever the pacifist (and traitor) when it comes to spiders, Husband dismissed my concerns. "Leave it alone. It hasn't done anything to you. And it won't, if you just leave it be."

     "A fine protector, you are. It would just tickle you pink to have us all bitten to death in our beds."

     So naturally, after Husband ran out to do errands, myself and the crew were left to deal with the infiltrator. I dragged out the vacuum. Butch stood at the ready. I'd caught Sundance chewing on a June bug, a week prior, so I knew I could count on her; It felt good to be able to shout, "My kid eats your kind for breakfast", and mean it.

     A few minutes later, the spider had been taken out with extreme prejudice, sucked cleanly into the vacuum abyss. No return flight.

...or so it was thought.

     Yesterday, while chasing Sundance around the fake palm tree, that the chicken salad could be wiped out of her hair, I happened to nudge a throw pillow, and in doing so, came face to face with my nemesis. Son-of-a-eight-legged-harlot..

     "So, we meet again. Come to eat the children, have you?.." I drew a knife from my boot, with my left. "What, no witty comeback? You think you can just hang out on our side of town, bite up the place, cheat at cards, spook the cattle, light the saloon on fire?!" Like a bull fighter, I brandished the washcloth in my right hand, and dealt the final blow.

We named him He Who Must Not Be Named, and flushed him down the sink.. Sundance still has chicken salad in her hair.

So tell me, how do you take care of your spider problems?

Until Next Time, Readers!