Bugged Out and Armed

Tales of the Crypt and Tombstone

Rob’s outside swearing at his motorcycle,
throwing wrenches like thunderbolts,
while I’m trapped inside,
forced to leave the window open for his extension cord.

The bugs?
Oh, they’re loving it.
It’s a 70’s disco party in my bedroom.
They’ve got lights, they’ve got a dance floor,
and I’m just trying to survive.

Then it happens—
this beast of a creature comes flying at my face.

I swear, it’s like a kissing bug and a cockroach had a baby,
with extra-long antennas,
navigating with sonar and radio frequencies
to nail me better the second time.

It flies to the wall—
and I dare to get a better look.

Mistake.
Because now the sonar’s pinging,
and it’s coming back for round two.
This thing’s on a home run mission.

I ninja-arm that sucker into the drywall,
grab the nearest weapon—a bottle of chewable vitamins—
and slam it down like I’m banishing it to the underworld.

I’m currently praying he’s dead.

There’s no rest in peace for bugs in my house.
It’s more like a tombstone,
and it reads:

"Here lies the devil’s mount,
smashed by a 30 count.
A bet was lost, so he went home,
his ride was left to die alone."

That’s right.
In this house, bugs don’t just die—
they get sentenced.
In the South, we believe in Jesus—
and if you’re uninvited,
you’re fixin’ to meet Him.