Tuesday, September 22, 2015

Banana Hymn Of The Republic

Banana Hymn Of The Republic

Yesterday, I bought a butterfly net. I'm not sure why.

I was actually shopping for one of those mosquito netting outfits in a sporting goods store. You know, the kind with the green bucket hat and the lightweight netting that drapes down over your shirt, with pants to match. I was looking for the pyjama variety of the outfit, if such a thing exists, because I need something to help me sleep through the swoop of fruit flies that seem to have descended upon my bedroom.

Oh, I know. Eating cheese and crackers in bed is a no-no, but I swear that I am ever so careful with the crumbs.

And I swear that I have never flipped a banana peel off into the dark night. If I had done that, say a couple of months ago, I'm pretty sure I would have picked it up the very next morning. Well, to be honest, I don't eat bananas. Tropical fruit makes me hot, makes me want to strip down to a loin cloth, makes me want to scream like Tarzan. Forget what you're imagining. It's not a pretty sight.

I have sprayed the room with bug spray several times, but the only one getting sick and dying of the fumes is me. The fruit flies? They love it. I think they have street parties, and while drunk or mad or both, they dance the hairy meringue while inhaling deeply in a fog of DDT. So I have given up on the spray idea.

I have also tried those homemade traps that you can read about on the Internet. None of those worked for me, either, although I did like the one that said to put a banana in your microwave overnight and leave the microwave door open. Then, in the morning, you sneak into the kitchen, slam the microwave door and nuke the little congregation inside. The banana explodes, of course. Someone should have mentioned that, I think. The whole process created more of a mess than a solution, and I have lost hope of finding a quick fix to my dilemma.

Instead, I have tried to live in peace with the little flying fruit suckers. I've embraced a sort of eco-PETA-live-and-let-die philosophy, the kind that Paul McCartney espouses. I have done my part, letting them build suburban communities on my houseplants, but I'm afraid my little winged friends are not cooperating. Despite my tolerance for them, the little buggers seem to mistake me for a huge pomegranate every night, seemingly as soon as the sun goes down and I am finding my way into non-restful sleep on my Sertainly Imperfect mattress. Maybe, they have vision problems. What are the chances of getting a variety of tiny, tiny spectacles for them to wear? Or maybe it's night-vision goggles they need?

Of course, I'm not a pomegranate, a papaya, a kiwi, or even a plantain. So, I'm afraid that most nights, they are sadly disappointed, and I know that they don't want to be here anymore than I want them to be here. Many of them are depressed. I can tell, because many of them are suicidal. You see, every morning, I discover at least three or four have drowned themselves in a half-full coffee cup I leave especially for them on the kitchen counter. It's sad. I mean, if these were your relatives who had come for a visit and who suddenly began drowning themselves in a half-full cup of coffee, well, you'd probably be upset. Because my victims are insects, it doesn't seem so bad. Sure, I merely count the fatalities, count my blessings, and then wash them down the drain. Seems simple enough, but who wants to face an insectual holocaust every morning?

So, as I was saying, yesterday, I bought a butterfly net, and I'm still not sure why.



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