My dad made the 5-mile trip from his house to my apartment on Dartmouth to kill one in the kitchen. That mother fucker was hanging on my toilet paper roll. Those people weren't the ones that had to make an emergency trip to 744 Syracuse Avenue (thank you, Brian Hurtt) in 1996. "En garde!" Most people told me that this fear was irrational. Nearly every time I roll out some toilet paper, I'm afraid one of these guys is just going to roll his way into view. Ooooh, mother fucker! I just looked again! Ooooh mother fucker! Oh, my God! Oh, geeeeeeeez. This one squeezes my stomach muscles like an intense sit up, makes my eyes squint shut like I'm about to get hit, and causes me sound out a little breathy, panicky laugh, accented by "mother fucker"s. It's a different kind of laugh than my snort or deep baby-like giggle. There's no way to describe my reaction without copious use of the f-bomb, so if that word offends you, (1) I apologize whole-heartedly, (2) rest assured that I never use this word unless cornered and threatened, and (3) #2 might be a lie.Įither way, each time I look to the top right of this screen, I immediately begin laughing, though I find nothing funny at all.
The problem is, in trying to download the image above, I've worked myself up into such a panic that I'm surprised my little sweaty fingers are nimble enough to strike the necessary keys. The Japanese call it the "mustache bug." If I met a man (or woman, for that matter) with a mustache that looked like this thing, I'd send them quick! to the waxer.Īt this moment, I'm attempting to write about my irrational fears of the house centipede.
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