I hate black flies.
It is not very PC these days to express your dislike of any species publicly. I am sure that somewhere, right now, a loosely assembled, disorganized group of knuckle-headed drunk dingbats is planning a mass annihilation of flies. When eventually they are caught in their attempt to totally disrupt the already fragile eco-system with their diabolical plan, they will undoubtedly hold up this blog posting as the executive summary of their manifesto and point their grubby little fingers at me. Also, right now, a peyote tripping hippie in New Mexico is starting a “Rights for Flies” web campaign. I’ll get hate mail from people who will liken me to Tony Hayward, Leona Helmsley, and whoever invented BPAs.
But I don’t care.
I hate the little fuckers.
I hate flies because they are in my house and they will not leave. If a wasp gets stuck in your house, it will immediately start banging its pointy little head against the nearest window glass. When you crack open the window, it will sense the draft and fly outside. A black fly might alight on the window glass, just to tease you, but the minute you open the window (or reach for a fly swatter) it will dive bomb your head and then fly into your fridge. It will land on your uncovered butter dish, march around a bit, start shaking its butt at you, and chant na na na na nah na.
Flies are not merely pesky. Flies are assholes.
I also hate them for their indiscriminate dining practices. Flies love any kind of dung and they also love anything you have just baked and left cooling on the counter. This means that after enjoying a morning repast of raccoon shit, flies will fly their crappy tiny feet over to your house and traipse all over your blueberry muffins. I’m sure that I do not need to remind you that flies have very poor personal hygiene. The only way a fly will get wet is while dive bombing an unflushed toilet.
Or your glass of Chardonnay.
Probably both, but we know damn well which it will do first.
I hate the noise flies make. That incessant buzzing drives me insane. Flies have a sixth sense for two things….Saturdays and sleep deprivation. They live solely for annoying the sleep-deprived on Saturday mornings. They will start their assault at day break. Just when you are settling happily into that dream about winning the lottery, stopping the oil spill, becoming a national hero, getting love-mail from DavidThorne, and suddenly developing a charming French accent, they will rev up their engines and all you will hear for the next three hours is BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
Then, when you think your head might pop off and all your life force will come spouting out of your neck like Old Faithful, the buzzing will suddenly stop.
And that’s the worst.
Because you know one thing:
At anytime, without warning, it will start again.
But what you don’t know…
What you cannot stop thinking about…
What really may finally drive you over the edge is…….
WHERE IN THE DAMN HELL IS THAT FUCKITY LITTLE FUCKER RIGHT NOW. ARGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH. ARGGGGHHHHHHH. ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.