I cremated those little sonsabitches

Ask anyone who knows me well, they’ll tell you. I don’t hate many creepy crawly things. The exceptions I can think of are cockroaches and crickets, cause those little critters are big enough to have a noticeable weight and sturdy enough to make a nauseating crunch underfoot when you send them to the RAID Motel In The Sky. Spiders I generally don’t mind, because they eat other annoying little buggers. But the one spider I will not abide on my property is a black widow. And tonight, two of them declared war on me.

Thursdays are trash days, which usually means late Wednesday I can be found swearing at the trash cans as I endeavour to fill them up and put them out in the alley. Tonight was no exception. But as I prepared to pass the garden (from left to right, you have the garage, a path, the garden, a path, and a tool shed, so you have to walk along the narrow paths to get to the trash cans and alley), something told me to bring a flashlight and look for spiders. Cause I hate walking into spider webs and then for the next hour jumping in fright whenever anything brushes your skin, anticipating the cool burn of a black widow bite. So I did, and I found a little spider web low to the ground on the left side of the garden. No problem, I thought, I’ll just go around the other side and kill this one later. As I went around the right side, I came face to face with an enormous black window finishing up a wrap job on a fly caught in its net, which was about two feet wide and centered at eye level. Now that pissed me off, so I retreated to the house to ponder my plan of attack.

First, I thought I’d just spray them with alcohol and torch them. Turns out webs and spiders don’t absorb enough alcohol to become flammable.

Then I dug around the junk drawer and found my old Fisher Price Baby’s First Blowtorch (a little mini blowtorch, not much more than a nozzle and a small tank, about the size of a Sharpie). But, time had corroded the seals, and when I filled and lit it, little flames escaped from the valve and I was suddenly conscious that I was holding a tank full of compressed, explosive butane, so I threw it in the pool and let it bubble itself out. Hunk of crap.

By then I was really pissed, because these little shits were keeping me from my nightly beat off watching Family Guy, so I decided they couldn’t just be killed; I had to make an example of them for any other critters that may dare to venture into my backyard. I finally caught each under a glass with cardboard, and assembled the makings of a full buddhist cremation. I found a pottery shard big enough to hold them both, doused it and the concrete slab I put it on with alcohol. Then I dropped the little 8-legged freaks onto the pottery shard, and tossed on a match.

My intellect knows that the sound I heard was of liquids boiling and escaping as a gas from their bodies, but my animal brain insisted the arachnids were screaming. I did a little dance as they shriveled and blackened, and eventually became one with the pottery shard.

Satisfied in demonstrating my masculine abilities to any surrounding females of the species, I took out the trash and went on my merry way.

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