Ninety-nine percent of this blog is rated PG. This post, however, is SO not. If you have a problem with foul language (or your bosses do), then skip this. If not, then go forth and read.
You know what, you shiny, brown motherfuckers? You have no business living on this planet so fuck the fuck right off and die.
Stop coming in my house just because it rains and you don’t want to get wet. You’re a fucking BUG, get over yourself. I don’t come find you for shelter when it’s sunny and try to protect myself under your disgusting shell. Unless you plan on paying some bills around here, get the fuck out. I’m sick and fucking tired of opening a cabinet door and finding you sitting there staring at me like you’re waiting for me to serve you tea or some shit. Oh, and stop bringing all your friends and family with you everywhere you go. You are not elephants, you do not need to travel in herds. When I kill one of you, I shouldn’t have to worry that your relatives are going to sneak up on me waving tiny little pitchforks in their antennae.
One of the reasons I fucking hate you is because you don’t live by the Bug and Vermin Code. Humans and unwanted creatures like yourself have a long-standing code of honor that dictates if we see you, you’d better run. Mice and your cockroach ancestors have this figured out but it seems to elude you (because you’re a species of insensitive pricks). When I turn on a light or open a door and find you there, it is your fucking responsibility to leave the common area in which we find ourselves thrown together. I have more rights than you in this world so YOU are duty-bound vacate the premises upon my arrival but, of course, you never do. You peer at me with one of your eleven eyes or whatever you see with, and I’m always the one that screams like a girl and runs for help. One of your fuckstick family members invaded my kitchen the other day and I couldn’t get to my coffee pot for hours. Asshole.
Let me be clear: When I show up, leave. That way we can pretend to peacefully co-exist.
Don’t think I’m not killing each and every one of you stupid bastards because I’m a merciful being. Trust me, I’m not. I want every last one of you shit-colored, smega-eating filthy beasts eradicated from the galaxy. I don’t kill you because that means I’d have to look at you long enough to take aim. You are so fucking ugly that I’m certain I will suffer permanent corneal damage if I even look in your general direction, which makes aiming a rock, broom, or napalm at you somewhat difficult. Anyway, I know my attempts would be in vain because you’ve apparently perfected eternal life. You fuckers just don’t die. Limbless, with one antenna broken off, you still find a way to writhe around in your personal version of Dancing With the Bug. I hate you.
The other reason I don’t kill you is that I’m never sure which particular brand of evil you are. Some of you motherfuckers scurry on one of your twenty wiry legs, but others have evolved into Winged Merchants of Evil. Some of your lineage can actually fly, which is a special brand of terror for me since it usually means our encounters end in a dive-bomb at my head. Do you know how many hours of counseling I need just to get over *one* of those incidents? DisneyWorld has nothing on you twatlickers. Fuck Magic Mountain. Just stick park-goers in a room with a couple of flying palmetto bugs and — BOOM — the world’s most terrifying adventure.
I’ve been living in Florida a long time and I’ve tried to make peace with your existence. Spiders, snakes, mice, and even raging, beastly, fanged bears don’t bother me, but you make my life a consistent and unrelenting living hell (and I once sat through an opera played entirely on handbells and accordions, so that’s saying something). You think just because you’ve been around longer than us common Homo Sapiens that gives you the right to infest our homes, cars, and trees. I’m bigger, badder, and have better resources than you so stop being so uppity or I’ll just burn down the fucking house to be rid of you. That’ll teach you, motherfucker.
