Not my bravest moment

http://www.planetnatural.com not only has bug-porn but also provide advise on how to get rid of them

I like waking up early as much as I love cockroaches.  When that alarm goes off, I curse my life.  And then I get up because I remember that I don’t have one.  A  life, that is.  No-one forced me to move from fat to fit.  And then try and remain there because fat is a bastard, always lurking around, hiding in a bottle of wine or a box of pizza.

I work my way through all seven dwarfs from the time that my eyes open until the moment I can close them again.  Grumpy is up first and once he leaves, they follow one after the other, until I usually get stuck with Happy. Or Funny, who’s the illegitimate child of Snow White and Shrek. Sometimes I end up with Bashful…

All my shoes are piled at the bottom of my closet because the Wife doesn’t want to organise them in neatly sorted pairs.  I have to dig for my sneakers every morning at a time when my eyes are still trying to remember how they’re suppose to function.  Other people frown when you walk into a gym wearing shorts and shiny, black shoes.

It turns out that the dark corner at the bottom of my closet is also a cross-dimensional porthole from hell, as that would be the only explanation  why a f*cking cockroach would be scurrying across my hand that early in the morning.  And he wasn’t little! This atrocious piece of wasted creation was the Godfather of a freakishly large, mutated clan of despicable, disgusting, horrendous family of cockroaches.

I did what any normal 42-year-old man would do.  Especially considering the fact that this man is still dealing with Grumpy whilst trying to be a caring father, a loving husband and a ferocious protector of his family.  I retracted my hand, jumped up and flung the bug across the room, all before anyone could blink.  It was like that scene in X-men with Quicksilver but without the awesome theme music.

Oh and did I mention, I screamed like a little girl as I was doing it…

I chased the monster and got to him before he reached the ground.  As he dropped, I squashed it.  Thirty-two times…which is when I stopped counting.  Some might say I was auditioning for a part in the Lord of the Dance. But more important was the fact that the thing was dead.  And in pieces.

There was bug-juice everywhere, dripping from the walls, the closet doors, my legs.  It was splattered across the floor, oozing down the stairs.  My chest, puffing from the effort, was drenched in the stuff and pieces of goo and guts stuck to my hair and face. I took a shovel and scooped up all the broken pieces of it’s body and dumped it in a refuse bag.  Or more accurately, in four bags.  I placed his head on a stake/toothpick at the bottom of my closet as a warning to the others.   Then I took a selfie…

And that marks the second time this week where the Wife was laughing uncontrollably…