Today my mood is foul because I am engaged in mortal combat with fruit flies.
This may seem insignificant to most, but I assure you it is not. These horrible little creatures have invaded our sinks at the house while we were away, and now it’s war. Never fear, I have consulted the interwebs, and they assure me I can easily win this battle. I simply have to pour copious amounts of poison down every last drain, plug them all, and leave them long enough to wait out a life cycle. Which is 40 to 50 days.
Needless to say, preparations have been made and things have been bought at the local hardware store to make a swift and severe attack from our front. I will begin the pouring of the chemicals momentarily, and the plugging will commence thenceforth. It will be so laughingly easy, I snigger to think about it. Then I will spend the next six weeks screaming at anyone who dares to unplug the drain, and impose lengthy sentences of verbal degradation upon those who do.
So easy. Stupid flies.
I walked into the kitchen this morning, only to find one perched atop the container of poison used to flood the drains before I plugged them, to keep the live ones from laying more eggs. She was smoking one of my cigarettes and apparently having herself a breakfast martini.
“Awfully big for a fruit fly, aren’t you?”
I plucked the cigarette from her and doused it in the martini.
“Yeah, well some idiot has plugged all of the drains, I can’t lay my eggs, so I just get bigger and bigger.”
She rubbed her distended belly with two of her six legs.
“I had no idea fruit flies smoked menthols.”
She blew out lazy smoke rings. Clearly, she was taunting me.
“I knew you were all swine. Any mother who would smoke and drink before 5 p.m. while pregnant must certainly be nothing but swine.”
This got her attention.
“Listen lady, just unplug the drain, let me lay my eggs and quit with the lecture.”
Normally, I would never have lowered my standards to speak to a fly, but this one was not only pregnant and smoking, I’m fairly certain she was underage and unwed. She needed a “Good Talking To,” regardless of her low position.
“Listen fly, this is war. People do strange and terrible things when in combat with an enemy. Now put down my martini glass so I can smash you and your belly full of eggs with this newspaper.”
She struggled with her pregnant shape, and lifted herself off the martini glass.
“Save it, lady. I’m flying over to the University this morning anyway. They welcome us in the labs, Drosophila melanogaster are Gods in the research departments. You better unplug those drains — the chemicals you poured down them are going to eat holes in your pipes.”
With that she flew away, and I’m fairly certain she stole my lighter.