The Battle of Lafayette Squre

Last year I posted around this time of the year that my office building was under attack by lady bugs. While not exactly threatening, the sheer volume of these good luck charms convinced me that there was some kind of conspiracy going on. Eventually, however, my theory proved unfounded and the ladybugs proved benign, disappearing at the next frost.


This new wave of insect conspiracy is much more disturbing.

Last weekend I was awoken at dawn by a very disturbed girlfriend: there was alarge spider on the wall of the bedroom, and it was time for me to step up and be the protective boyfriend...the little lady hates spiders.

I generally don't mind spiders, and appreciate their role as predators of other more annoying insects...but this bastard had scared the GF and cut into my valuable weekend sleep-in time. He had to go. Manliness quotient: high. Johnny Fucking Cash high.

This was a big, mean-looking bastard . Without trepidation but still groggy with sleep, I approached the intruder armed with a rolled People magazine. He was in range, not moving, an easy kill.

The first swat was right on target, but the millisecond before impact the motherfucker *jumped* off the wall. At me. He was pissed and had crazy speed, and I screamed like a little bitch. Manliness quotient: quick downward spike. Anthony Michael Hall in 16 candles low.

After one futile attempt to bat the intruder mid air (slight increase in quotient for the attempt), I turned my attention to the pile of laundry on which he landed.

Again, spider-cricket was perfectly still. Waiting. Preparing. Mocking.

Now completely awake and angry for my public emasculation, I again take aim and wound up an anvil-like death blow. At the last second, I thought I saw a twitch, but was confident I had delivered the death blow. Upon raising the face of Charlize, however, I was stunned to find...nothing. No splattered cadaver. Not even a hairy leg to assure me that I had at leased maimed the thing. Crazy, crazy Neo speed.

He was gone. I searched high and low, digging through the ample laundry pile, underneath the bed, in the bookshelf. Nothing. Humiliated, I retreat back to bed with promises to M that I’d resume the hunt after another hour of sleep, that I had indeed injured him and that he was no threat. M promptly grabs comforter and retreats to the downstairs couch. Me: half naked, without blanket, and unable to kill a simple spider. Manliness quotient at all time low.

Fast forward two hours: make breakfast for the GF in order to recoup some self respect. Eggs and bacon are good. Coffee restores my senses and tweaks me out enough for me to get very angry at our little visitor. Feeling good, projecting strength.

I return upstairs, armed with a big ass fashion magazine, towel, and a Frisbee. Turn room completely over, searching individual books, behind pictures: every nook and cranny in the joint, and the same in the adjoining room. Nothing. Nada. He’s gone, and I’m now resigned to sleeping alone for the rest of my life.

M walks in to check the progress, and is surprisingly supportive until she gets the news that her boyfriend is a pussy. “He’s not in my boot, is he?” she asks, completely terrified at the prospect. The pair of boots in the far corner (the corner very near her) is the only place I didn’t check in the entire second floor. I think the shear evilness of the spider hiding in the GF’s boot was so far beyond reason that it didn’t even register on my radar. But I knew it the second she mentioned it.

Approach closest boot with trepidation. Kick it over, prepared to attack. M runs screaming from bedroom. Nothing. Second boot gets tapped out and…bam. Big fucking spider. Jumping. Down the hallway. Towards the screaming Melissa. Dog is barking out of confusion, spinning in circles, completely useless in the fight. Me, running behind spider: THWACK! Spider jumps at last second, back towards me. THWACK! Spider jumps under nightstand at last minute. Kick nightstand aside and THWA….nothing. Vanished again. Long Duck Dong manliness quotient, lower than low.

Move bed from wall. Check all sheets, pillows, dustbunnies. Nothing. Turn nightstand upside down: Big. Fucking. Spider. Jumping. At. Me. But no screams this time.

Dodge flying spider…my turn to do Neo impersonation: twisting, falling over backwards. Spider and I land around the same time, he four feet away from me in the middle of the room. Out of the corner of my eye I see the Frisbee, which I promptly grab and…in a maneuver even my drunkest ultimate brethren would be proud of, over handed a lob which: Landed. Right. Ontop. Of. The Spider.

He’s now trapped in a green fluorescent jail, which I quick jump on top of and stomp repeatedly, without mercy. Melissa, down the hallway and still screaming, convinced that the sound was me falling over and convulsing in agony. Closer and very careful examination of the overturned Frisbee confirmed a huge mess of spider parts, and TWO BIG FUCKING CRICKET-LIKE legs.

But, after many hours, I had finally killed the little bastard. Worthy adversary. I am a man again, Jake with the red porche and argyle sweater. Only not, um...as gay. I should get away from the 16 candles references and stick with Cash and McQueen as role models. ‘Grew up in the 80s, what can I say.

What I want to know: why the fuck are spiders and crickets cross breeding, and why do they hate us so much? What kind of sick creature was this? It looked like a brown recluse spider (which are very venomous, as it turns out), and certainly had the reclusive thing going on, but those don’t jump (as far as I can tell). I can’t find any cricket in this godforsaken state that is aggressive and climbs on walls.

What the hell is going on in the midwest? Has all of the pollution in the Mississippi created a blinkie-like mutation of super spiders? Seriously: what the hell was this thing? If another one comes into our house I'm going to be forced to quit my job and return to the relatively normal horrors of California. I'd rather go down in the Big One than by spider bite. More manly.