Pest Control the "Green" Way

In an unexpected turn of events, the President and CEO of the Duck Tape corporation held an impromptu Skype press conference today expressly to deny accusations of conspiracy and involvement with the currently trending recommendation on social media sites to use one of its products for "GREEN" Pest Control.
According to the company, the "non-advertisements" that have flooded social media sites did NOT originate from within Duck Tape's own secretive boardroom meetings as a last ditch effort to influence and boost rapidly falling sales and stock prices.
Despite the vehement denials of involvement, Duck Tape spokespersons admit that the off-label use of its product is easy, economical, and completely eliminates the unpleasant noise made by squishing certain "crunchy" pests, usually millipedes.
They also reminded consumers that Duck Tape is now available in more than fifty colors, any of which can be used as part of one's "green" pest control purposes.

I Believe I Have a Constitutional Right to NOT Like Fish, and NOT Get Hassled About It. (But I've been wrong before)

I don't understand fish. I don't like fish.  I don't want to see them, touch them, learn about them, eat them, or (ever since that fatal field trip) DREAM about them!  They are only a little below the rank of Birds, which fall just below the rank of Spiders and Other Bugs, with Snakes still #1, because there's nothing I know that's worth the price of spending time with snakes.  Snakes are the twisty bastard children of Medusa and Satan and I prefer not to associate with anybody or anything that much more evil than myself, ThankYouVeryMuch. 
I recently discovered that I reallllly don't like giant aquariums with real live people dressed exactly like those little plastic scuba guys that everybody used to have in their aquariums, next to the "treasure" chest, at their houses when I was growing up.
At the aquarium on the field trip, I was captivated by the Scuba guys with the Data (from Star Trek The Next Generation) skin tone, assuming they were fun, GIANT versions of the plastic home fake ones, and then I felt scared and confused when they turned out to be real people.  And they were very close.  And could probably SEE me through the thick glass, staring at them.  And I'm pretty sure they were all serial killers, too, because who the FUCK else would put such an ugly costume on and flap around in front of other people's children, shoving fish into OTHER fish's mouths for a living?  Thanks for the nightmares, New Orleans!
FUCK fish.  Good night.
***in this random free online pic, can't you just HEAR him singing that Call me, maybe song? 
But, he's saying stuff like: Call me, so I can make a REAL skin suit!  That last chick was waaay too skinny and I don't wanna be the only one at the party in an open-back suit, so call me, okay? 

Don't Judge Me! A.K.A. Why I Take My Cell Phone With Me Everywhere, Even When I'm in the Bath (your reasons and results may differ)

Help!  I've fallen and I can't get up!
Everybody remembers this from back in the day, even if you weren't born yet, because of all the kidding about it that still goes on.  When Life Alert emergency telephone systems first came about, they were wired in to these things called Phone Jacks that had to be installed by a human TELEPHONE company guy, and had nothing whatsoever to do with call girls or cell phone cloning.
These systems promised safety AND independence to the elderly, and reassured their families with the knowledge that 24 hour emergency help was now just a push button away.
My Grandma was the first person I knew who had one.  There was a pendant one, which she took to bed (and was SUPPOSED to wear all the time), and the main one connected to the land line (which, by the way, was just called a phone back then).  Speaker phones, answering machines, and touch tone phones were just becoming popular, and only rich people could afford high tech cordless units that were about the size of my arm from elbow to wrist, with an antenna twice as long as the rest of it.  Those cordless phones were super cool and you could take them all around the house and even outside!  But not if you needed to actually make a call.  The signal range didn't reach far in those days.  Basically, you had to be just as close to the main wall jack thing as if you were using the mustard yellow wall phone.
Recovering memory: In those days, you had to RENT your phone from the phone company!  I think it was kind of a rent-to-own scheme.  Those were the good old days of utility company monopolies.  Also, whole families used to sit around and play Monopoly a lot, so they wouldn't have to go shoot something to make for dinner.  They would sometimes all pretend to NOT be hungry for days on end, for much the same reasons. 

Once The Future happened, I believed NO ONE who blamed losing their phone to water damage (via toilet) on a toddler or other pet!  I just didn't understand their compulsion to have the phone at all times.  Were they carrying on conversations while using the bathroom?  What in the world is so important that it can't wait until AFTER you poo??  Are you expecting the current President of the United States to call you for urgent advice?  Are you afraid you'll miss that call from the radio show contest you entered?  Waiting to hear back about that job you applied for?  Unannounced parole officer call?  Do you feel toilet time is wasted (no pun intended) unless you're doing at least one other thing and you've already read every book and magazine in your house?  Are you so embarrassed by your Angry Birds addiction that you only play it when you're locked in the privacy of your bathroom?  If so, is your family beginning to wonder that you may have an actual gastrointestinal disease that you should see a doctor about?  Do your farts sometimes smell like fresh fruit, even though you didn't eat any fruit?  (Sorry.  I just threw that last one in to see if you were still reading!) (No, I DON'T know what your fruity farts say about your health or diet.)

I have an unofficial list of the various most likely ways I will die embarrassingly.  One is being electrocuted in the bath because I'm a fan of the really, really, really, realllllly  long, hot bath.  (True Story: I was once late for something that had been planned way in advance because I took a FOUR HOUR BATH. 4 Hours.)  But I don't have a rubber duckie or plastic boats or bath crayons, so I bring books and magazines to read.
I BRING them.  But I mostly use them to set my phone, tablet, and laptop on, and also to help keep all the chargers and extension cords organized.  I check facebook and my email (Gotta move those pizza ads onto my email folder labeled PIZZA, really.), and I write (because that's what writers do) stuff.
But, the whole time I'm doing all this, I worry.  I wonder things like: If I drop my phone in the bath while it's plugged in, would what I assume are emergency safety switches on my extension cords protect me at all, or would I fry instantly?  If I drop my phone into the tub, but it's not plugged in, would that be dangerous?  What if the end of one of my extension cords falls into the tub, and it's still plugged into the OUTLET, but it's not being utilized by my electronics collection?  Fry?

Back to toilet.  Tub was a bit of a detour from my original topic, which was Safety.

So, my cell phone is basically my modern Life Alert System.  It's doubtful I will suddenly break a hip and have to call an ambulance.  But what if I'm in there and I hear a burglar breaking in the house and I need to call 911?  These are unlikely scenarios, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility.  The only time I ACTUALLY needed (and used) my phone in the bathroom for was to text somebody in the house because there was NO toilet paper in there.  None!

And, if you ask me, that's the day the cell phones paid for themselves!

Hello, Cop. Did you pull me over just to make a new Friend? If so, THAT'S the reason I was speeding!

There's just no way around it- I WILL one day get tazed and/or arrested.
Last time I got pulled over, it was already dark, but I had spotted the cop car waaaaay in advance, "hiding" in plain sight on the side of the road, so I was obviously going the speed limit on my way to work (like I always do anyway, wink-wink), and he got on the road behind me and put his lights all on!  For the first time ever, I DIDN'T KNOW FULL WELL why I was being stopped.
He strolled up and asked me if I had been rear-ended?  (What kind of question is that?)  My answer: No, why?  The Cop: You have a broken tail light.  Me: I DO?  The Cop: Did you back into something?  My completely honest answer: Not TODAY...
Apparently the SIDE of one of my tail lights was cracked, the SIDE.
I told him I just woke up and got ready for work, and had no reason to perform a full vehicle inspection prior to getting in. 
He invited me to get out and look with him, which, in retrospect, was weird itself, because they usually shout: STAY IN THE VEHICLE, and KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!
With intent to avoid an unnecessary ticket, tazing, arrest, or other altercation, and put an end to our bizarre interaction (without raising suspicion), I walked around with him and let him point at the right tail light. 
We shared one special moment as I acknowledged that he sure was right!  Just like he said, some of the light cover was clearly broken off.  What a clever boy he was to notice!
I was being soooo uncharacteristically sweet that I would've been instantly lethal to any diabetic vampires that might have happened along. 
Then the Cop said I could just put some red tape over it, like he was doing me some kind of favor.  Like he thought maybe I was the kind of person who was really gonna go right out and spend money on a whole new car part.  I already know about tape.  It's been around for literally years, as have red markers.  And junk yards.  Also, had it been day, he would've noticed that the "broken" light was the most attractive feature on my minivan.
I thanked him (out loud) for drawing my attention to the non-problem, and for letting me in on the secret about the tape, and (not quite as out loud) for causing me to have to drive way over the speed limit the rest of the way to work so I wouldn't be late. 

Our Hearts Can See What Our Eyes Cannot

Raisin Man

And he saith to those who lookethed upon him and doubthed:  I am Raisin.
And they believethed at last.

The Miracle of the Panties *Written by: Anonymous, Whose Parents are Alive AND Literate, and Could Easily Find Their Way to This Site, if Someone Ever Tells Them About the Internets.

WARNING:  This is not the GOOD kind of miracle.

I'm not a marksman with a gun or a bow and arrow, and I don't mean to brag, but I have a pretty fair handle on where my vagina is.  (No, not LITERALLY, although one could probably purchase such an accessory if one chose to do so, which I do NOT.)
So, HOW is it possible for one's period to end up EVERYWHERE except on the PAD?
Pads are supposed to be technologically advanced now.  I don't think they are even available without super-absorbency powers and "wings" for "all around" protection. 
Y'all know that AS SEEN ON TV pad, the one you can put on the kitchen counter (with no panty back-up crew of any kind, not even a paper towel in sight), pour a half gallon of Windex on it, pick it up and hold it upside-down, and STILL no blue dye gets ANYWHERE but on the pad?  No drips, no dribbles, no muss, no fuss.  THAT'S what I want in a pad!
We can send a man to the moon (again, as soon as NASA raises enough money), but we can't send a woman, because it'd be a bitch and a half to rinse blood out of one of those space suits.

Hang on- Maybe it's because it's a Canadian company.  Maybe vaginas work differently there.

Dear Canadian Feminine Hygiene Products Manufacturers:

With all due respect, American Vaginas shouldn't have to take classes in order to use your products.
Sincerely,
America

P.S. Don't even bother sending us coupons or samples, unless you want a really strange and gross kind of Boston Tea Party Re-Enactment on your conscience, if you have one.

I really like pizza. Really.

Not to add too much to your burden of favors, etc., while you're in Sicily, but I NEED you to seek out the best pizza (and pizza maker) and pass on their secrets to me. I had to make my own scratch crusts (I liked them, but my children were not fans) from internet recipes because my "friend" forgot to tell me that the crust SHE uses to make the best homemade pizza I've ever had was PILLSBURY. IN A CAN! And it's not ROUND. WHAT the FLUCK, Pillsbury? Are you selling rectangular pizza stones now?  They didn't have any when I went to the store!  All the pizza stones and pans I saw were flucking ROUND. So, yeah, keep in touch. I could have Bad Cat swallow a jump drive with fake government secrets and you can take him with you if that would help with negotiations with the Sicilians! He likes to travel with his lighter shaped like a shotgun, so I don't know if that will be a problem at the airport. He also has several disguises, including wigs, hats, false teeth, fake leg cast, beards, and an urn. He can hold his breath as long as David Blaine can (seventeen minutes), in the event you need to fake his death.

Making the Drop (without any altercations or arrests)

So, Someone I know has a sister who is currently incarcerated in a work center for non-violent felons.
Each weekday, they all put on their state issued, horizontally green striped, pants, and walk out of the gates and into the small community to work, a mutually beneficial relationship to all.
Every Saturday, approved visitors may visit from noon to 3:30, UNLESS there are 5 Saturdays in a month, in which case they just don't get a visit that weekend.
Letters may be exchanged via the USPS, but they may only receive 2 packages a month, one for PERSONALS, and one for CRAFTS.
A routine was developed in order to facilitate the delivery of extra needed supplies and/or correspondence without having to learn how much postage stamps cost and without struggling to coordinate with the "official" monthly package, a chore that seems more suited to the personal assistant of a CEO of a large organization.
The routine seemed simple enough.   Place package in empty, white plastic planter near the back door.  Then, nest the matching planter inside, effectively shielding the package from Saturday afternoon until the inmate's return to work Monday morning.
Due in small part to an irrational, yet intense, fear of being wrongfully convicted, I arranged to be 90 miles away, with many eyewitnesses to support my alibi, during the initial "drop," all the while assuring the "droppers" that the whole thing is perfectly legal, but they might want to bring bail money, referred to as "cash for shopping, justincase!", because there are many, many bargains to be found, if you look carefully, but, under NO CIRCUMSTANCES are you to slow down, crack open a window, look directly at anyone, and DO NOT GET OUT OF YOUR CAR no matter what, while passing through the World's Smallest Ghetto.  No problems or complications were reported to me, so I assumed it was an easy process.
Helpful hint to anyone planning anything more complicated than a Taco Bell run: Arrange to have a getaway driver!  They get bad publicity, but they are infinitely more helpful during day to day operations than any heist you'll ever need to pull.
So, after weeks of carefully planning my own drop, Saturday morning found me feverishly scurrying around gathering some items (clothing, a book, a nice pants SUIT, in a separate garment bag, for goodness sakes!), packed tightly into a clear zippered bag (like the ones I save whenever I buy bed-in-a-bag sets).
Remember now that I have never seen the LARGE WHITE PLANTERS that I've been instructed to use.  The planters outside at my former home were big and heavy, like with palm trees in them, definitely not anything that could blow away.  These are similar to what I expected to find.
There were several pairs of JEANS in my bag.
The first thing I noticed when I cased the joint by driving slowly by were a few overturned, beigey looking, smallish plastic flower pots out back, by some weeds and other assorted junk.
The second thing I noticed was a ludicrous amount of police cars, scattered about randomly, as if you were about to play with all your Hot Wheels cars and dumped them on the floor, but then you got distracted because somebody else pulled out a humongous box of dress-up clothes, including tiaras and heels!
I parked behind a nearby building to get my nerves under control and to re-route my M.O.  I considered preparing a plausible explanation for my actions for my eventual arrest, but I was blanking on that.
By that point, I believed everything except the building I was trying to near-filtrate was booby trapped, alarmed, and patrolled by armed, vicious K-9s.   And possibly their officers.
In order to transfer some legally obtained, OTC meds to the drop bag, I had to pull out my giant bag of OTC and prescription meds and pour pills into different bottles, because an innate should only have pills in properly labeled bottles, right?  Of course, I'm right. 
However, not having planned for this, my OTC bottles were full and I couldn't spare all that Tylenol.  So, I opened up all my empty and partially filled pill bottles and filled them to capacity with Tylenol, all the while suspecting I was being monitored closely by cameras, dogs, and cops.
I have decided completely against leaving the nice suit.  It's started sprinkling already, and the "drop bag" will be outside for 2 nights.
I have also decided that I don't wanna join my sister in prison, even if it is the work release kind, so I drive away in what I hope is a casual, nonchalant manner, even though there's an abrupt dead end and I have to turn around because apparently they don't want you driving past their cops. Or their buildings.
I watch ALL my mirrors carefully to see if I'm being followed yet, and it doesn't look like it.  I drive on and see a THRIFT STORE!  Yay!
Perhaps I can purchase a non-clear, less permeable bag, whilst I wait out the cops.  Surely, they already ran my plates and have decided I'm not a threat to a city/federal building.
I hide out a while at the thrift store.  In fact, I stay until I hear the cashier turning customers away, saying they're closed now.
I pay for my things and transfer the clear bag into the giant, black, martial arts (cause I'm part Ninja, y'all!  What part?  The BEST PART!) nylon bag and return to the scene of my non-crime.
So I park my big blue mini van on the street, in plain sight next to what I can only describe as some kind of broken-off alley junk pile hole where the homeless might seek shelter if there weren't so many cops and questionable characters like me wandering about.
Needless to say, the flower pots were filthy, they wouldn't "nest" properly, and I hurriedly (nonchalantly, of course) re-arranged the contents of the alley, including moving their water hose caddy. 
It's one of the ugliest alley holes I've visited and I may bring paint and a graffiti artist with me the next time to spruce it up. And maybe build a small shed. I don't think you can get arrested for community beautification projects.
I swear!  ADHD and an irrational fear of wrongful arrest and imprisonment makes simple tasks so much more complicated than necessary.

A Brand-New Song That Used to Be a Completely Different Song

Remember that catchy country song that goes: Here's a Quarter. Call Someone Who Cares.
If you DO, you're old like me, but that's okay!
I like to modernize the old stuff, though, throw a new spoon into the old juicebox ever now and then.  Make the old not only NEW, but relevant to present times.

And so my reversionation of that song goes like this:
Here's a quarter.  Do you want it?  Because I have absolutely no use for ONE quarter.  In 2013.

How I Survived My Encounter With a Killer Bee

(This is a delayed posting of the Completely True Story of what happened very late Friday night.)

Not two hours ago, I was trapped in my bathroom with an angry killer bee, and no one, not even Pedro, would come to my aid.  My pleas mixed with my tears, falling on the floor, creating more danger.  I narrowly escaped death in the form of busting my head open on the floor.

Armed only with buns of steel (You shut up. It's not your story.) and cunning, I frantically cast about, searching for weaponry.  WHY is my machete never right there when I need it?  I don't know about you, but I have NEVER needed my machete in the garage, which is where it lives, apparently.

I don't know exactly how high these ceilings are, but I do know that I'm just over five feet, especially when barefoot.  Killer bees instinctively know this.

Paper towel tubes don't add much to one's reach.  I MUST protect my family, I thought out loud.  I don't think he suspected that he had just met his equal and that an Epic Battle was about to ensue.

To finish him off, I must first faze or daze him.  But, HOW?
I find the sole aerosol product available.
Killer likes the round light in the middle of the room.

So I stand precariously on my chair and aim my Athlete's Foot "Mace" at the killer bee, who chose to spend his last minutes walking around it.  He didn't die quickly.
As the air became foggy with the spray, I realize my eyes are not benefiting from the exposure.

At that time, I realize that my plan is going slightly less accordingly with itself than planned.  I nearly give up, deciding that all I am doing is treating the killer bee's athlete's feet.
But then I grab the paper towel cardboard again & knock his fazed and dazed ass to the floor, and finish the hit.