bats.
c'mon.
even if you aren't a vampire fan,
which i am definitely NOT.
certain kinds of weak sauce quasi-homosexual
french-style frilly-shirted sucking are just too lame, even for me.
you still have got to give it up for bats.
i mean,
upside down wall crawlers?!
flying mammals?!
heinous noses and sonar?!
so dope.
and,
the little deflatermausen eat their weight in bugs every night.
our personal cadre of carnivorous carapace crushers are busy workin' overtime,
all third shift night watchmen style,
to make my nights shift from muggy and buggy to crisp and crunchy.
we got bats, we're gettin' bat houses,
and then, once we put up the projects, we'll get even more bats.
what's 'hood? bat condos, ninja.
word.
we've also got barn spiders.
big, nasty, bendy, waxy, hungry mutha-uckas.
i can't even pretend i want to get close enough to take pictures,
not because they want to eat me, exactly,
although i'm sure with a big enough web, they'd give it a shot;
but,
i will seriously punch myself unconcious if i even imagine one getting in my hair.
seriously, i've got crawlie skin just thinkin' about thinkin' about it.
bats in my belfry i can hang out with,
but arachnids in my business will make for a ten-day vomit festival.
that's no joke.
we watched our own personal shelob wrap up a whole genus of winged insects tonight.
interesting? sure.
morbid? a little.
nightmarishly awful? F* yes it is.
the worst part has got to be the second scoople of web surfing.
that's when the helpless mummy gets all brendan frasered and beat up.
sorry, dumb flying bugs,
but my kitchen light was not a lighthouse in your inky ocean of air.
like a cornish wrecker waiting by a false light,
the biggest and the most bulbous eight-legged lady waits for those little idiots.
gross, ya'll, doesn't even begin to cover the breadth
of brutal bloody murder i watch from my dinner table,
and i never ever even tune in on the evenin' news.
i've got my own big action goin' on like a gangland turf war,
super-silent and ultra-violent,
it's all really happening,
from the first to the last of it,
right here in the true crime smoke ring circus of the woodsly goodness.
and after dinner theater, what comes next?
dessert?
uh-huh.
little kids loooove that sh!t....
so i guess i'm eating grotesque gallons of gloppy glace.
my dynamic daughters got the notion into their little braincases
that the only way to finish off a tasty and fulfilling meal together,
is to gather up the nutrients, and the granola, and the chocolate covered raisins,
and activate the syrup-soaked cookie doughboy soy deliciousness
every single flippin' night until i get fat and stupid.
or at least fatter and stupider, anyway.
little mini metabolisms, ya'll, just don't get as beat up by bingeing on treats.
i get to wake up with rumbles and grumbles,
and they sleep soundly in a near-coma.
on the floor, if for the very last night, even.
still?
yeah. still.
our crucial commune of crusty folk punk hippie hottness
comes to an end when the younglings head home.
we're closing down the camp for now.
hell, i may even need a haircut after all this floor-level, floor model, floor showtime, y'heard?
it's big kid bed magic pillow-top pillow-talk tonight, my ninjas.
creature comforts even when it's waaaay too hot for a comforter,
i'm still taking comfort in the good stuff that the woods has provided...
...unless i find a spider in there,
in which case i'll be a berserker barbarian baby b!tch;
never quiet, never soft....
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