(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.