Sweeping with the enemy

I was evilly and viciously attacked this morning while cleaning my bathroom. The intruder was particularly ugly and didn't even bother to mask his identity.

Lavatory Tarantulosa made his appearance as I was sweeping the floor. He immediately did that crouch-down thing they do when they prepare to attack, and as he glared at me with his eight eyes (eight eyes, for God's sake--wtf's up with eight eyes??) I swear he was hopped up on meth or heroin or something. He's all like "Hey, motha fuckahhhhhh" and I'm not sure what happened next because I kind of blacked out for a while.

When I came to he was gone and I felt very violated. And panicked because now I can't use my bathroom ever again which is a problem because I occasionally have to pee in the middle of the night and the only 24-hour gas stations around here lock their doors at night. I don't think I can pee through the little slidy-shelf they use for after-hour sales. Well, I could, but I don't think it would go over very well.

People say that spiders are more afraid of you than you are of them, but who actually believes that crap anyway?

I once read a story about a man holding up a gas station with a daddy long leg. Everyone had a field day with that one because the cashier actually opened up the register and gave him all the money. I don't blame her. I would have done the same thing.

If someone held a spider up to me and made demands I'd hand over my collection of old Simon and Garfunkel music that I love more than Willy loves his weed or Pee-Wee Herman loves his porn.

So, as my son mopped the bathroom floor (you didn't actually think I'd finish it knowing there was a killer on the loose did you?) he swears the spider came out from under the radiator and he killed it, but I don't believe him.

I believe he killed A spider, I just don't think it was THE spider. I think the first one was the Don and the one Dalton killed was one of his associates. Now we've killed one of the 'family' and pissed off the spider-mafia and there's going to be a horse-fly head in my bed because I'm the one who ordered the hit.

I'd call the exterminator, but the last time I called him and said I had just gone head-to-head with a rabid, nun chuck wielding, Tommy-hawk throwing arachnid, he said he doesn't deal in that particular variety of Hannibal Lecterosa so I guess I'm on my own.

("Hello, Clarice!"....)

Let's just hope he thinks the world is more interesting with me in it.