Photo: AndYaDontStop, Flickr Creative Commons
One of the few things I'm good at, truly good at, is killing houseflies with a rubber band. I can do this from some distance. In fact, today our house had a mild infestation, probably the result of a collision of unfortunate factors. First, most of the fish in the pond behind our house died suddenly over the weekend. This isn't really that big of a deal as I don't like the idea of eating fish out of a pond that drains a cotton field, and the vultures, herons, and fire ants made quick work of the few hundred fish that went belly up. The second factor was that work began on our bathroom remodel today and those guys apparently spent a lot of time hauling crap out of the master bath that they ripped down to the studs. The flies, disappointed at the lack of rotting fish, decided to come in and case the joint.
I spent about thirty minutes this afternoon stalking from room to room, sneaking up slowly on each victim, and taking aim. Rubberized death rained down upon them. Flies fell like black snow from the walls, ceilings and kitchen fixtures.
As I write this now, a fly is circling my head, a lonely survivor, taunting me. Lucky for me, flies are stupid and he doesn't realize that I've been going all Chairman Mao on his peers. He has no fear, but he will soon die. He's chosen to fuck with the wrong guy with a rubber band. Ask not for whom the latex snaps. It snaps for thee.