I swear to you that I'd never laid eyes on a Stinkbug until 20 years ago when I moved back to Ohio from Nashville. Never, not once. I remember the first time I saw one, albeit vaguely..."the fuck kind of bug is that ugly thing??"...or something along those lines. Slow moving, ugly and just plain creepy. How the fuck was I to know that they were staging a full on invasion? Again, I swear I'd never seen one of those things before. I dunno where the hell these things came from, but I fucking hate 'em. All of 'em. Every. Single. One. I'm okay with all of the ones who stay the fuck outside, but I think every one of those fk'rs is giving serious thought to coming inside at some point or another. So yeah, I hate 'em all. Outta sight, outta mind...
Which brings us to the last few Winters, when I find out that these creepy, ugly fuckers have made their way inside, like they do every year when the cooler air of Fall starts making its way in. Fuck these little ugly m'r fk'rs. I despise these creepy little fuckers. Every time I see one inside, my short term goals change - immediately. Doesn't matter what I'm doing, stop. Doesn't matter what I have to do, stop. At the top of my priorities right now is making certain that this creepy, ugly, slow moving m'r fk'r gets what's coming to him for entering my abode.
These little fk'rs have one thing going for them...well, actually, it works against them, but I find it rather appealing: they're slow moving enough to seal their own fate. Make no mistake about it, I'm going to move pretty fast - faster than I really need to, but now it's on. I don't give a single fuck what I was either in the middle of doing, or about to be doing. Pause that shit. Stinkbug alert. Oh I got this shit, believe me.
I head straight for the bathroom for a decent sized handful of toilet paper - don't have an exact number of sheets, but rest assured it's enough to ensure that none of the creepy little fucker that's about to die will touch my bare hands. No, I'm not going to catch and release the bastard outside - there's a price to pay for coming into my house - and that price is death by being squeezed into a fluffy white cloud of Charmin...no, a fucking DEATH Cloud of Charmin. Yeah, I said it. Worth noting is that I never get around to even thinking about how these little fk'rs smell. I've heard quite a few people say they smell like Cilantro. Yeah, you know what? Fuck that. I happen to love Cilantro, but I've never gotten around to noticing how these creepy home invading m'r fk'r bugs actually smell - they ain't gonna be here long enough for me to notice how they smell.
One stinkbug, about to die in a swirling cascade of water in the flush of a toilet handle...and it's back to what I was doing. Jeezus, I hate those little fuckers. All of this could have been avoided, the fucking Death Cloud of Charmin, the flush of a toilet handle-spiraling-cascade-water-death, hell, even the fucking swearing, had you simply stayed the fuck outdoors where your creepy ass belongs. I wouldn't have cared, wouldn't have looked for you and wouldn't have bothered you.
But, nooo...you had to come into my home. Make no mistake about it, I hate these little fuckers. What I hate more than seeing one inside my home, is hearing the slow, vibrating baritone/hum/buzz as one flies in close proximity to where I'm sitting or standing....VvvvvvzzzzzzzzzzzTPT! Oh it's ON now m'r fk'r, only now, instead of calmly heading for the bathroom, now I'm twice as pissed. Not only was that your last flight ever, but now I feel like single-handedly making all of you fuckers extinct. No one would give a single fuck. No one. Matter of fact, eliminating every last one of you fk'rs just make make me a national hero - I mean, seriously, who's gonna miss your creepy little asses? Fucking no one, that's who.
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