Swimming with the fishes...

This is not about poo. It’s not about vomit. Or the feeling you have when you scrap off the road kill from your car tires; it could be the same, if you read on. It’s about bugs. Big, ugly creatures created to give us the feeling and justification that we are the superior beings in the food chain on this planet! Bugs are the kind of vermin you secretly fear will find a home in your shoes or hidden under your blankets when you jump into bed to sleep off the wine you drank too much during dinner.

Last night I took the bus home. As usual, it was crowded and congested with smells and odors that stick to your clothes. Whenever I get home, I change out of my military wear of jeans and dress shirt, immediately. Sometimes I notice the “Bus Butt,” that waif of odor that clings to your cotton denim jeans which a good wash eliminates.

One time I saw a bug on the Big Blue Bus. It happens. It’s a jungle in there. People droppings and such. Another time, on the Chicken Bus, in Guatemala, a couple brought their hen on board and placed it above them in the open luggage compartment, feet tied. Later, during a particular thorny section of road, the hen crowed or whatever they do, and a steady stream of urine bounced off the farmer’s straw hat.

After a nice dinner last night, we sat on the couch in our civilian wear of pajamas and tee shirts. The sun had already set. As the night became cooler, the fan in the living room spewed forth a nice cool breeze of West Los Angeles air; not too smoggy. Watching Season Five of the Sopranos, I got distracted by something crawling on the floor. It was a gigantic grass hopper! It was huge! I was excited. I haven’t seen one since I lived in Long Island, with a real back yard and sand pile. There were always cool bugs there. Like a Tony Soprano dream sequence when he realizes that his best friend was flipped by the FBI, I realized too, that the bug’s body shape was completely wrong and I saw the ugly truth unfold before me as he ran. It was a cock roach.

What happened next was from any Sopranos’ episode, take your pick. We both jumped up and like a gang initiation gone bad, beat it up with our slippers and shoes. I gave it a few more whacks, Soprano style. I guess we went crazy. Blood and guts oozed forth as it tried to limp away. We pinned him down and shouted at him with our obligatory New Jersey-ian Italian accented profanity: get the F!#@$!# out of here, or you’re dead! I guess we missed the Sopranos episode where the guy actually is allowed to walk away; not this roach. He dead. He is swimming with the fishes.