My Battle With the Insects From Hell
That's me with the gun. No, not that guy. That guy.
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It was a calm October Tuesday when I came home and thought everything was okay. Ryan had just driven me home in his van that he uses to solve mysteries with his dog and hippie sidekicks. After saying goodbye to Ryan with my usual grab-your-crotch-and-scream farewell, I walked up to my front door. "Holy fucking shit!!!" I screamed after noticing all the bugs crowding around my doorway. I quickly ran into my house fearing that one of those fuckers was going to beat me up and steal my wallet.
Special Feature:
Information About Crotch Grabbing
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Once seen by society as disgusting and obscene, crotch grabbing has become a national pasttime. A disgusting and obscene one. And it's not really a hobby throughout America. Just Walled Lake. Well, only the part of Walled Lake where I live. And I'm the only one who does that in my house. My point? I grab my crotch.
Handling your own package in public was at one point thought to be done only by people named Michael Jackson. What the world doesn't know is that I invented this concept, not that black/white man/woman. The King of Pop has a dark secret that nobody knows about. Not that child raping thing. That's pretty out in the open. What Michael hasn't told us is that he's created a time machine made out of molested little boys and lots of modeling glue. Using this time machine, he went to modern day Walled Lake and observed my crotch grabbing habits. Then he took my pose, added a girly scream, and suddenly he's the pop superstar we know today.
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Some people may not respond to crotch grabbing very well.
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Why would somebody want to grasp their own groin? Because it's a lot better than any other greeting. Think about it. You could walk up to somebody and do some abstract handshake that you saw on MTV or you could announce your presence by boldly clasping your testicles through your pants and proclaiming, "AAAAGGGGHHHH!". By saying hello to people through groping yourself, you can meet lots of new and interesting people! Most of them are cops and prosecuting lawyers.
For unknown reasons, women will not, under any circumstances, greet people this way. I would love more than anything for a woman to walk into the room, scream something loud and confusing, and then grab a crotch. Preferably mine.
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I slammed the door on all their tiny insect faces and stood leaning against the door. As I breathed heavily, my large chest pounded. I then took the pineapples out of my shirt. I then stood leaning against the door with my much smaller chest moving up and down. Only now my upper torso hurt because I had spikey fruit rubbing against it all day.
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They're cute up until they MURDER YOU WITH THEIR DEADLY STINGERS AND MACHINE GUNS
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Some people say that having a ladybug land on you is good luck. These people are deceitful shitheads. Don't believe their pro-ladybug propaganda. I say this because my house was viciously attacked by a swarm of these adorable but deadly insects. Half of me wanted to hug those cute little bastards. The other half wanted to run away screaming and grabbing my crotch. Those bugs were small and cuddly, yet they wanted to kill me. Much like a girl scout troop.
Realizing it was either me or them, I loaded up a tank full of Chemical Solution Z. What's in this mystery solution? Why doesn't it have a normal name? Will it be the eventual downfall of mankind? The answer to these questions is simple. It's thirty-six.
So how does one make Chemical Solution Z? Here's a recipe so you can mix your own mix of this mixture:
- 2 cups dishwashing liquid
- 2 cups hot water
- 1 drop of green food coloring (so it looks radioactive)
- 3 gypsy hairs (to add to the mystery)
- 8 pints of human blood (optional)
Murders 500+. Best served while singing Asian folk songs, just because Asian folk songs are awesome.
After loading up my trusty water pump shooter thingy with Chemical Solution Z, I walked outside and opened a Costco-sized can of foot into the asses of some unfortunate ladybugs. After an hour of diligently inflicting death upon my
winged adversaries, I thought I was winning until I saw something big and red coming my way. "Could it be the Kool-Aid Man?" I thought. No, it couldn't be that pudgy bitch. He was
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Smile while you can, Kool-Aid Man. I'll see you in hell.
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killed in Vietnam by his own comrades for screaming "Oh yeah!!!" during a stealth mission. Now he's in that Strawberry Kiwi-flavored waterfall paradise up in the sky. He can party with all sorts of underage children in an oasis of sweet, delicious Kool-Aid. Wait, wasn't that guy's head filled with Kool-Aid? Why the hell would he drink his own brain matter? Forget that thing about the Kool-Aid Man going to heaven. He's rotting in hell for his crimes. Anyone who tells kids to drink liquids out of his own skull deserves a rape date with Satan.
What came rolling down my street was not a satanic drink mascot. It was much larger. Much rounder. Much eviler. In fact, it was the most evilest thing to come down my street since the time those Jehovah witnesses visited all my neighbors and tried to read stuff out of a book. I think it was Moby Dick or something. Anyway, the dreaded beast that crept down my cul-de-sac in search of blood resembled the miniature bastards I was murdering with Chemical Solution Z. I immediately put down my Super Soaker and stopped singing my Korean folk song. It was time to figure out exactly what kind of insect had invaded my neighborhood.
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My god! They're evolving! This is yet another example of the Germans being fuckheads. Keep that in mind when you pick sides for World War III.
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Jumpin' Jesus on a pogo stick! It was a robot ladybug! Quicker than you can say "donkey cunnilingus" I ran into my garage and come out armed with a rusty crowbar and an old dolphin. Without considering the danger associated with attacking a cyborg bug, I swung my crowbar and threw the dolphin with all the fury of half a dozen female lumberjacks. Some guy in a banana costume came out of the robot ladybug and said, "Stop fucking up my Volkswagon before I call the cops." He must be working for them. With three swings of my crowbar and a couple whacks with my dolphin the guy dressed like produce was lying on my driveway in a puddle of blood and fruit juice. That'll teach him to side with the insects.
After dismantling that mechanical monster, I walked inside to relax. After rocking some sex-legged creatures into the afterlife using mysterious chemicals, a carjacking utensil and a marine mammal, I was pretty tired. I greeted everyone inside my house with a friendly grabbing of my groin as I strolled over to the refrigerator. I opened the door to the fridge and grabbed a pitcher of cool, refreshing Kool-Aid. Just then, the Kool-Aid Man burst through a wall screaming, "Try new Tropical Blast Kool-Aid!" I told him to fuck off because he didn't use the door. "You're gonna die, you son of a bitch!" yelled the chubby red pitcher of tasty beverage. I ran into the garage and grabbed a sea horse and some Cheerios. "Prepare to die, Kool-Aid man!" I shrieked while shoving pineapples into my shirt. This would be the biggest fight of my life.
To Be Continued!*
*No, it won't be continued. This was a stupid idea and I'm sorry I ever exposed you to it.
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