Mutant Fly Invasion Of Epic Proportion, Or, Pass The Vodka Now
Mutant flies have invaded our home.
Mr. Handsome spent the entire weekend killing these larger-than-life flies that had suddenly appeared, as if overnight. One day, no flies. The next, a fly inundation of epic proportion.
To the tune of Queen's Another One Bites The Dust, Mr. Handsome made it his job to kill every single flying monster that appeared. And appear they did, over and over and over again. As soon as he would be finishing off the last of 20-some flies, another group of 20 would start flitting around, coming from out of nowhere.
And these weren't just your average house fly. Nay. These flies, they are the Hulk version of the house fly. They're all relatively young flies (how can I tell, you ask? Because they don't yet react to movement. They just sit there, oblivious to everything around them, kind of like most husbands), but these flies are the size of three full-grown house flies. I kid you not. They're HUGE.
Both Mr. Handsome and I came home from work Friday to the home invasion. Immediately blaming the kids, since it was their first full day at home since school let out for the summer, I thought surely they had left a door or two open or something. After all, isn't it always their fault, regardless of what the issue at hand is? Why else did I give birth to children if not so that I could blame everything wrong in this world on them?
But nay, that was not the case. Because apparently, they are breeding somewhere in the house, and everytime I think of it, I have to throw up, so excuse me for a moment...
OK, I'm back.
Just to set something straight: we're not neat freaks, and oftentimes, our home is in quite a bit of disarray, but it is nowhere near bad enough to house a fly whorehouse. That, my friends, entails warm, moist, decaying matter, and not even our house has that. Well, not a lot. At least, not that I'm aware of, which doesn't mean a helluva lot, I guess.
We do have an open garbage bag in the kitchen since our garbage can died a violent death a few months ago, and we haven't had the wherewithal to buy a new one (such is our family). But, really, could one garbage bag be the source of these damn mutant flying monsters?
I'm guessing it can be, which makes me want to drop everything, get in the car right now, and drive waaay over the speed limit to Home Depot and get the mother of all garbage cans. But I won't, because my side hurts, and my big toe on my left foot is aching, and my scapula's out of sorts as well. Also, it's not a good hair day.
So, instead, I thought I'd do a little research on our friend, the fly. And boy, am I glad I did.
Did you know that the fly is our enemy? The fly is our enemy because it is one of the biggest disease carriers in existence. And they are so because they feed on human and animal waste. Yum. It only takes eight hours for freaking fly eggs to hatch. And the best part? One successful fly hatch can result in more than 2 million baby flies swimming around the house, depositing their poisons, their poo-infested little feet touching our food, thereby depositing poo particles on the food we are eating as I write this.
Oh. My. God.
I had a fly friend once, a long time ago. I named him Steve. Honest to god. I felt sorry for the little guy. He was hurt. He was landbound, making cute little buzzing noises, but only going around and around in circles on my desk, unable to fly. I could see the sense of utter futility in his face, and see it in the beat of his one working wing. So, I nursed him, hoping I could bring him back to flying health. I left him by my computer keyboard for the night,
covered in a tiny little fly blankie and the next morning, he was a goner. I felt sorry for the little guy, wishing I could have saved him. That experience marked me for life. Until now.
Alas, I no longer have the Fly Saviour urge. Because now, now all I want to do is kill every single one of the buggers who dare to exist in my space, buzzing around my head like they own the world, banging into the windows, hanging off the blind cords, creating even more havoc in my already havocful life, such as it is.
Flies aren't the only things coming out of our garbage bag. Gryphon apparently got into the garbage Saturday night, because all day Sunday he proceeded to leave puke piles all over our living room carpet. Would you like to come to our house for dinner?
Mr. Handsome took me out for brunch Sunday morning, and as we waited for our meals to arrive, my cell phone starts vibrating,
and unfortunately I didn't have it resting in my crotchal area, and it's Dee, who proceeds to tell me that, not only has Em left the house to go to the beach for the day with unknown people, but that the dog has left vomitous pools around the house, and Dee was freaking out all over the place because puke and Dee don't mix, and what should he do, oh my god.
We told him to lock the dog in the bathroom so he could puke to his heart's content, and then we started trying to track Em down, because god knows who she was with and where she was going
and what kind of parents would we be if we didn't know who was getting her pregnant? So, using my Super Sleuthing Skills that I developed over many years as a newspaper reporter, I found her in a van on the highway on her way to a lake with her best friend. So, it was all cool. We then proceeded to continue with our brunch, relaxing as it was.
And then we came home to more flies, and a still puking dog who also knew he had been a very very bad dog, so he stood there shaking, with his tiny, clipped tail between his legs, as he watched Mr. Handsome clean up various piles of vomitous pukola in every room in the house, muttering swear words under his breath as he sprayed the pukies with special pet puke spray we had bought specifically for said Dog of Much Puke.
And that, my friends, adds up to a pretty damn successful weekend. Onward.
Oh, and Happy Canada Day, eh! to all my Canadian friends. It's Canada's official birthday, but to me, it's another day to sleep in, hang with Mr. Handsome and the kids, and drink copious amounts of mojitos while my children serve me my meals. What?