Roaches Get the Runs

For lack of better comedic fodder, indulge me again on the topic of cockroaches. The roaches and I have developed an uneasy but livable relationship, at least on my part. I've grown in boldness from merely scaring them off to actually applying extermination measures of various forms and levels of effectiveness.

Two weeks ago, I awoke to find that a nectarine in my fruitbowl had a child sized bite taken out of it, with drippy remains of what was most likely, a digestively unpleasant night for my crunchy friends. After laughing audibly at the idea of bugs having the runs, my mood sifted to a fierce frustration and sincere resolve. Much like Joey, of the sitcom "Friends" I'm fairly easy to live with, just don't eat my food!

So, last week I went to Wal-Mart. Don't judge me, I am living in Texas. At said purveyor, I purchased a brown, lumpy substance in a chaulking tube that promised to lure roaches to feast and then send back to their nests to die. This option pleased me most as it was passive in nature and did not require direct contact on my part. Going home, I installed the goo with wincing, furrowed brow and watched in AWE as a large brown roach literally came out from below the countertop to feed AS I WAS SQUEEZING OUT THE GUNK. This I watched with morbid relish, and I squirm even as I retell it.

Unfortunately, not all roach varieties have the same appetite for the goo. There is a small variety of red roach, and when I say smaller, it's still twice as big as any bug I've ever seen back home, which is resistent to the poisons' olfactory lure. #$%!

These creatures have however, given me the opporunity to expand my extermination techniques to more applied measures. Late last week I literally came face to face with a Red (the cold war reference might reak of McCarthyism, but it serves to give name to my enemy) as I was bending down to load the dishwasher. Bastard. I went for the kill. Did I use brute force-- the heel of a blunt object? No, I fought with all my Rosie the Riveter fortitude, ran to the bathroom, found my can of John Frieda Beautiful Blonde hair spray and dosed the mother until it's little antenna were fused and it surrendered onto it's back and began its gutts oozing death dance.

While this encounter marked my first hands assasination, that John Frieda crap is not cheap. The next one got only a quick spritz, just to disorient it and then a wopping from my broom. Let's just say that the blow killed more than the bug and I'm not the proud owner of a Swiffer.

This week, I'm proud to say that I've truly arrived to the next level of preparedness, having gone out and purchased a supersized can of Raid that I've thankfully only had cause to use once this week. The attack began in the kitchen and found me running, can in hand, spray foaming forth, into the "dinning room" i.e. the bar counter, onto the carpet and just short of the coach. In the words of John McClane, "Yippie-ki-yay..." well, you know the rest.