My Problem With Buggery

"What's the definition of futility? An ant crawling up an elephant's ass with rape on its mind." Author Unknown

I've carried this notion around for years. Who hasn't thought about futility and wondered why we bother? Of course it's as silly as an ant crawling up an elephant's ass with rape on its mind.

I've posted this quote on my wife's bulletin board. She loves futility, I call her a futilist. I'm not even sure it's a word, but it should be because the world is full of Winonas. She'd rather crawl up an elephant's leg than admit defeat. She's worse than an ant.

I've said, "At least it makes more sense than buggering an innocent pachyderm." She doesn't appreciate hyperbole, let alone ants.

Ants are brutal creatures, by the way. They'll even rape an ant from a neighbouring colony, take the pupae, and raise it as a personal slave. I've mentioned this to Winona as well. I've said, "At least it makes more sense than buggering an innocent pachyderm." She doesn't appreciate hyperbole, let alone ants.

Okay, you're obviously wondering what I'm getting at, especially since Winona thinks I'm nuts, and somewhere there's an ant feeling seriously maligned about now.

So let me get down to the issue here. My wife's into buggery. I keep telling her it's futile. Nothing can prevent an ant — or any bug — from forcing it's way inside if that's what it wants to do.

Winona screams and moans, carrying on like every bug is some arch villain. I keep telling her, "They're bugs, dear heart. They were here before we were. They're looking for a warm place to winter." She's not having it. "I want them out!" she screams.

You can't argue her. I get out the ant traps and spider wands, capturing them, sending each one out into the cold where they'll just come back in again. And we'll say, "I'll be buggered."

I've engaged in every form of buggery.

This doesn't deter Winona, unless you call getting an exterminator a deterrence. I don't because I know ants and spiders and silverfish, termites and cockroaches. I know them all, I've fought them all. I've engaged in every form of buggery.

There was a man in Tucson, Arizona who swore bugs could be driven out with loud music. He played Iron Butterfly's "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" for three days straight. It not only drove out the bugs and vermin. It also drove out his family. I hate Iron Butterfly, too.

Each morning, Winona searches the house for creepy-crawlies. She's convinced they work at night, digging tunnels, eating through the front door's weatherstripping. She lines ant traps on the floor like tiny bumper cars, daring the ants to pass without falling prey to temptation. She thinks it's catnip.

She saw a millipede chugging along across the rug. "Kill it," she screamed and then passed out in her soup. The millipede went under the baseboard, she went under the coffee table.

She looks like she's been on a three-day coke binge with minestrone in her hair.

I awakened her with ammonia. She looked like she's been on a three-day coke binge with minestrone in her hair.

"Where's that stupid bug!" she wailed.

"Left earlier with about a hundred suitcases," I replied.

"He did not."

"I assure you he did," I said, seeing him chugging across the rug again. "Tell me, dear heart, are our pictures crooked? Have you been head-butting the walls? Getting ready for cow season?"

"What are you on about?"

"Nothing, sweetums, shall we kill the spiders in the crawl space? Smack the silverfish into silverfish paste?"

"Very funny. I hate bugs."

"They'll see a lot more when this ammonia wears off."

"Of course you do. They cause destruction and pestilence."

"Do they?"

"No, honey, they bite occasionally. Strictly out of jealousy."

"What ae they jealous about?"

"You, my love. Your carrion ways. Your killer instinct."

"They'll see a lot more when this ammonia wears off."

Now she spots a small spider on the ceiling. The space it's occupying couldn't hold another spider — let alone a country.

Winona still considers this little guy an occupying force and goes after it with a Swiffer. Winona jams the Swiffer up into the molding, leaving a streak of guts that could've been avoided with "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida."

That's not Winona's style, unfortunately.

Death must look like a shit streak. Our house is full of them. You'd think every spider, silverfish or otherwise has worms.

All I need right now is running into some old spike sticking out and giving myself a lobotomy.

Once she's done, Winona turns to the more serious issue of possible termites in the attic. I've been up there. No evidence of termite cones that I could see. I was much more worried about bumping my head. All I need right now is running into some old spike sticking out and giving myself a lobotomy.

"What are you doing up there?" Winona calls out.

"Exactly what you told me to do, dear heart," I reply. "I've reconnoitered the perimeter and central zones of interest. There isn't a termite to be seem."

"Did you look over by the chimney?"

Winona's convinced termites come up chimneys.

I slam my head into a spike that's sticking out of a beam. I swear, stomp my feet, send dust cascading through the trap door.

"You're making a mess," Winona yells.

"Unless termites are a five inch spike now containing my blood spores, there are no termites."

"I just lobotomized myself, woman."

"Are there any termites in the chimney?"

"I may be selling pencils out of a cup by tomorrow."

"What about the termites?"

"Unless termites are a five inch spike now containing my blood spores, there are no termites."

"Then come down before you hurt yourself."

"I have hurt myself. I impaled my head, woman."

"You did not."

"Damn close."

"Don't be such a baby."

"Probably the start of tetanus."

I descend from the attic proper, heading straight to the washroom to survey the damage. Winona follows since there isn't a living bug to worry about. "Let me see under the light," she says, pulling me over to the sink. "There's nothing but a pink mark."

"Probably the start of tetanus."

"It is not. Go lie down if you're so traumatized."

I do it to stop her from licking her thumb. She's been rubbing it over my forehead. I had an aunt who used to do that. She'd lick her whole hand if she was trying to get a cowlick down. She died licking a scratch on her hand. It became infected. My hair has gone wild since she died. All it needed was a dry hand.

"I thought you were lying down," my wife says.

"I'm going."

"What's that on the hall ceiling?"

I tumble into bed. I'm tired of the carnage and the notion my wife is genocidal.

Out comes the Swiffer again. Squashed guts form another trail between washroom and bedroom. I tumble into bed. I'm tired of the carnage and the notion my wife is genocidal. She comes in and stands with her Swiffer like Joan of Arc. St. Winona, Slayer of Tiny Things.

"Why are you smiling," my wife asks.

"No reason."

She doesn't believe me. She never does. She eyes me like a hawk, and not without considerable malice. I take the Swiffer out of her hand. Calm her down a bit. Wipe the stupid smile off my face.

Above all, avoid looking up at the ceiling.