It’s that dreaded time of year when spiders rule and we cower and creep through our homes jumping at every little black dot we see.
There’s the Wakey Wakey spider. You know, the one that greets you in the shower every morning, hoping to get a peek of naked human. These perverts are usually too big to fit down the drain so we drown them with hot water and pray they won’t climb back up the drain when we’re not looking.
Then we have our What? You’re Not Using Downy? spider. They are the snobs of the spider world. The ones who inspect our laundry. If not satisfied with the fabric softener, they’ll jump out of our favorite towel and scare us so we drop your basket of clean clothes all over the dirty floor and have to wash it again. These uptight dicks will repeat the process until we eventually get a clue and upgrade to a better brand of detergent.
The Adrenaline Junkies are the breed I hate most. The cray-cray shit-heads who hop a ride in our cars or secure themselves to our antennas. The radio surfers, as I not-so-lovingly refer to them, are like the Supermen of spiders. Go through the car wash. Yup — the little fella is still there. Try to flick him off with a stick, he tangles himself tighter around the antenna with his super web skills. If you piss him off, he’ll find a way inside your vehicle and attack you when you’re late for work and speeding down the freeway. Never, ever piss off an Adrenaline Junkie variety spider. Just let him be. Many accidents could have been avoided if people had followed this one simple rule.
The Creepers are the pranksters of the spider world. They sit and wait until you are watching television in the dark of night. They scurry across the floor. They giggle and hide under the coffee table. You know you saw something, you hope its not a spider, but you have to get up, turn on all the lights, search under all the furniture, until you find the bugger or convince yourself it was your imagination. If you do find him, you realize you didn’t grab anything to kill him with.
“What no shoes?” you may ask.
No.
Because its late at night and you’re curled up on the couch wearing jammies and your favorite cozy socks. You’re not going to squish a spider with just your socks. So you’re stuck, staring at the little dick, thinking…okay, if I go find something to kill it with, he’ll run away. I’ll never find him again. Or you think… I could stomp on him, but then I’d have spider guts on my socks. Then you’d spend the next 3-4 hours with the spider-gut-heebie-jeebies and you’ll most likely have to burn your favorite cuddle-up-on-the-couch socks. But if you don’t kill the fuzzy asshole, you won’t be able to enjoy watching your favorite show, because you’ll be sitting in the dark waiting for him to exact his revenge because you drowned his cousin Spindle yesterday morning in the shower.
So basically, you’re doomed.
Heaven help those freaky humans that catch the little buggers and gently carry them outside to set free. They’re idiots. Sorry if I offend. But its true.
Let me tell you why…
That furry little creep is coming right back into your house. Only this time, he’s bringing friends. Yes. Friends. He’s going to tell everyone, “Hey guys. I found a no-kill-zone. We’re safe here. Come on in.” Each and every one of his friends is most likely going to have a million little babies — in your house. That’s like…a gazillion baby spiders crawling around the nooks and crannies of your home.
They all move in, it’s nice and cozy and soon, Spider City.
Then you have to feed them. Bathe them. Entertain.
Yes. Entertain.
Spiders don’t like television. It hurts their creepy little spider eyes. They want live theater. So if you don’t have a background in the arts, you’re royally fucked.
Why?
Because there’s a gazillion spiders in your house demanding live entertainment. And they are all buttholes. If you don’t keep them happy, they’ll get bored and go make more spider babies, or they’ll eat you.
All because you didn’t want to kill one butthole spider.
Moral of the story? Kill the damn spider or he’ll eat you. Maybe with fava beans.
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