Mrs. Hillbily Mom Is A Ninja

I have been feeling especially murderous today. Perhaps as murderous as I felt yesterday. AND my murder skills have been honed to a razor's edge.

No, silly. I'm not talking about walking around the porch of the Mansion, spraying wasps until they contort and die. That would mean WALKING. Nope. Wasps got off easy this year with Mrs. HM's killing spree. Like I always say, "Why go out seeking murder victims when the victims will come to you?"

I blame Farmer H for my two days of crime. Farmer H, who won't crap or get off the pot. Okay. That's kind of a lie. That analogy won't work. Farmer H does plenty of crapping. As evidenced by the evidence he leaves ON the pot. What I mean is, he can't make a decision. Not on the simplest thing. Well...unless it's spending money without telling me. $1000 here on shoe inserts from The Good Feet Store. $1700 there on a new riding lawnmower. $10,000 at the MO Conservation Dept's auction for a second tractor. That major stuff is easy for him. It's the day-to-day that trips him up.

Farmer H eats a banana every morning. Until he doesn't. He likes them kind of green and tart and firm. Like he likes his women. Problem is, they don't stay that way. Does Farmer H draw a line in the sand, and say, "I've had it with these bananas. They're too ripe for my tastes. I'm going to throw them out and tell Mrs. HM to get me some more. The store won't sell them to me. I'll have to wait until she goes." No. He does not. He lets those bananas sit there on the kitchen counter.

Do you know what happens to bananas on the kitchen counter? They start to get little brown spots. AND FRUIT FLIES! Technically, they are called Drosophila melanogaster. I studied them in college, you know. For genetics. We were very careful not to let them loose. We couldn't kill them, but we could freeze them. Dump them out of the test tube and look at their eyes and wings under a microscope. Then put them hastily back into the tube and freezer when they started to stir.

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom ain't puttin' no fruit flies in a freezer.
THEY MUST DIE!

It's bad enough when I see one flitting around the kitchen. But when they find me in my dark basement lair, one of us isn't getting out alive. Yesterday, it was almost ME! I can't stand these things! There I am, minding my own business, not typing up my blogs in a timely manner, and one of them dive-bombs my face. Uh huh. The days of lazily bobbing in front of New Delly's monitor, tempting me to take a swat, are long gone. These boogers are aggressive. They look like they've been taking steroids and lifting weights. I stopped just short of punching myself in the face to smash one. Good thing I had glasses on that I wanted to protect!

But...I noticed two of those behemoths circling counterclockwise. From in front of my face, over the computer tower, across the back of the monitor, and back towards me. SMACK!! Got 'em both! I'm a ninja, I tell you! Truth be told, they were probably trying to mate, and I squashed them in the throes of coitus. Too bad, so sad. What a way to go!

Of course there was that messiness of wiping off my palms and washing my hands. But they were still just as dead. I turned the light on and waited. Got another one on top of my Triscuits box. One on the monitor. One on the white rim of a red solo cup. And today, when one landed on my nose, I slapped myself! It felt so satisfying!

I bought new bananas today, and wrapped up the four left over in a plastic bag from The Devil's Playground. Tonight I sliced up two in a bowl with strawberries for Farmer H. Tomorrow he gets the other two.

We'll see if I'm provoked again tomorrow...