David and the Roach: Part II

Like any great tale of heroism (The Godfather, The Terminator, Rambo: First Blood, Legally Blonde, etc., etc.) my epic struggle with a cockroach needed a sequel. Well, let me be the first to say, thank God there was a roach up to the task.

The night began innocently enough. I was on my laptop upstairs getting my Facebook chat on. 2 AM rolls around, and I decide I might want to go downstairs and get me some snackage. As I begin to descend the stairs, I see a giant roach on its back and freaking the fuck out. It's kicking its legs every which way, fast as a motherfucker (we all know how fast those can be), and making a surprising racket in the process. I proceed to freak the fuck out as well, and turn right back to my Facebook chat to let my dear friend Ross know of my fears. At this point I'm afraid to go downstairs, because I know the damn thing will right itself right as I get there and kill me, as roaches are wont to do.

Eventually, I gather up the courage to use the foldy-chair/stool thing in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs as a block between a possible roach attack and myself, and run around the corner and look for something to put the roach inside to use to throw him outside. I do this because he's a giant fucking roach, and I don't want to deal with roach goo on my floor.

BACKGROUND:
To give you a sense my fears, earlier I'd watched Men In Black (which also was so epic as to require a sequel), and we are all familiar with that penultimate giant roach assault scene, and how, without the aid of gigantic weapons which I lack the permit for and/or access to, Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones would have died horrible deaths, and that colossal roach would have been responsible for the destruction of earth and all the people therein. NOT ON MY WATCH, MISTER.

Now of course, I wasn't so scared shitless so as to forget to take pictures.
Enjoy.

400 years prior to this experience, English poet John Milton would presage the coming of this hideous creature, describing it in terms thus:

"The one seemed woman to the waist, and fair,
But ended foul in many a scaly fold,
Voluminous and vast, a serpent armed
With mortal sting. About her middle round
A cry of Hell-hounds never-ceasing barked
With wide Cerberean mouths full loud, and rung
A hideous peal, yet, when they list, would creep
If aught disturbed their noise, into her womb
And kennel there, yet there still barked and howled
Within unseen. Far less abhorred than these
Vexed Scylla, bathing in the sea that parts
Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore,
Nor uglier follow the night-hag, when, called
In secret, riding through the air she comes,
Lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance
With Lapland witches, while the labouring moon
Eclipses at their charms..." and it goes on from there.

How, you may ask, did I deal with such a vile, disgusting, unseemly horror of creation? How did I, who can neither grow a mustache nor endure the radiating green residue of kryptonite, survive this infesting demon's affront unscathed, you ask? How did I vanquish this monster foul and not be rewarded with my rightful office as King of England in return, where lesser men have merely taken sorcerous swords from crumbling stones to claim the throne, YOU ASK IN AWE AND REVERENCE???

Here, my faithful friends, is how (in pictures!!!).

To begin with, the roach was on its back and, aside from, as previously stated, freaking out and kicking everywhere so that it moved all over the damn place on its back, it was made somewhat less threatening because it was primarily concerned with getting off of its back, so it might have been slightly distracted and not have had its full attention on slaying me.

First, Buffy (a cat [PS: whom I did not name]; also, in some ancient cultures, the devil) and I discussed the course of action we should take. I throw her towards the roach.


For some reason she thought looking at the damned thing would be more interesting than killing it. What are we paying her for?


And then she BAPs. Hard. Compounded by the fact that she actually is, by definition, a pussy, this is about as solid an example as you're going to see of said BAPing.


So I have to step in. Lancelot had his lances; David has his newspaper and transparent plastic wide-mouth containers. And yeah, we're old school and have a legit cookie jar.

Now, if you know David, you know David doesn't half-ass his shit (feel free to take that literally or ironically, depending on your experiences with David). I'm not going to stop taking pictures for the people just because both my hands are going to be occupied. That's right. This job required David not only vanquishing a hellish beast, but also learning how to work the timer on his camera. AND counting to 10. And then 2. Because I needed two shots. You're welcome.


Action shot!!! That, my friends, is what your foot would look like if your eyes were too busy staring death in the face.

PREPARE TO MEET YOUR GOD, O COCKROACH! --Amos 4:12

The tables have turned, Mr. Cockroach. How's it feel to be at my mercy, bitch?

I promptly ran to the door and threw him out. My dog decided that this was a good time to join the festivities. I snuck a picture of him before he ran away terrified (he has this inane fear of cameras; he can even tell the exact moment at which I turn my phone onto camera mode, and flees in terror right as I hit the button).

There he is, in all his radiant glory, celebrating my victory over the roach with gaited trot. What a guy.

David Lets Down America (Again)

I love America. Alot. We're pals. We're more than pals; we're almost married. She's given me all she could provide for the past 19 years of my life, and I like to think I've reciprocated. Sure, we've had our "lover's spats" here and there; once she went to war without telling me, and I found out the next morning with a very, very angry phone call from Iraq. Once I was a little content when Puerto Rico beat our extremely smug national basketball team in a little 5-on-5, and she wasn't too pleased that I didn't support "her team." We've had our rough patches; she's elected governments of which I've been none too proud, and back when I was in 8th grade my room seceded from the Union, much to her dismay.

But there have been good times as well. She was there when I needed some religious freedom and she's let me speak my mind, provided I wasn't being immature and shouting "FIRE!" in a crowded theater. I was there for her when FRIENDS went off the air and this one time that these people she always referred to as "terrorists" kept harassing her at work.

But today, my friends, I did the one thing I'd promised the woman who took me in and raised me as her own, who showed me love and tenderness when I needed it most, and who saved me from the bonds of British monarchical affliction I'd never do: I let her down. I disappointed America. And the day after her birthday nonetheless.

"What did you do, O David, who has done naught but honor this beauteous woman with bounteous love and joy?" you ask? I answer: I overslept the Wimbledon final. Now this simple act may seem harmless to the less wise among you, and the sentiments which follow may seem arrogant or foolish (See: David Wins the Stanley Cup! for a brief recap of these feelings you might have and/or the possible questions you might ask). But my sentiments are neither arrogant nor foolish, and my act not harmless in the least.

In oversleeping the Wimbledon final, I sealed the doom of young Andy Roddick, who sacrificed both short temper and lackadaisical work-ethic to get to this point. How is this possible, you ask? I'll now present you with a short list of recent athletic accomplishments among Americans, and, using the variable of "watched by David" or "unwatched by David," you will be able to connect the dots yourself.

U.S. soccer team loses to Italy, 3-1.............Unwatched
U.S. soccer team loses to Brazil, 3-0............Unwatched
U.S. soccer team defeats Egypt, 3-0............Watched (more-or-less)
U.S. soccer team defeats Spain, 2-0............Watched
U.S. soccer team loses to Brazil, 3-2............Unwatched
U.S. volleyball team defeats Netherlands.......Watched
Andy Roddick defeats Andy Murray..............Watched
U.S. rugby team defeats Canada, 12-6..........Watched
Roger Federer defeats Andy Roddick............Unwatched

"Touche, David," the polite swordsman would respond. In games that I have watched, American athletes are 5-0. In games I have not watched and/or slept through, they are a mere 0-4. You might have a few questions about the list - in what world is that a good sample size, David?; what in the heck does "more-or-less" mean?; what, in God's name, possessed you to watch international volleyball, and men's indoor volleyball at that?

To answer your questions: a.) in David world; b.) the game was graced with the presence of my eyes for a few minutes, although not the entire game, thus the "more-or-less" tag; and c.) that's a damn good question.

So yes; first I overslept the Confederations Cup final only to wake up and see the U.S. has blown a 2-0 lead to lose 3-2 while my support was incapacitated by sleep, and then today, despite the fact that I placed the alarm clock where I couldn't reach it without getting up and that I set all 3 alarms on my phone at 5 minute intervals, I wake up to find that, painfully reminiscent of my prior failure, I have overslept the Wimbledon final and Andrew Roddick has, contrary to his nature, lost 2 tiebreaks and a first-set lead to lose to the tennis god that is Roger Federer in the longest match in major history.

Here's a brief analysis of events (not to be confused for an excuse of them):
6:30 AM - David resigns himself to sleep, setting his alarm for 8:30 AM.
Between 6:30 AM and 8:30 AM - Fate ordains David's phone to die.
8:30 AM - David apparently turns off his alarm, despite having no recollection of this action whatsoever. This action involves rolling out of bed, walking to my alarm clock, and having the presence of mind to turn it off. Considering I didn't even have the presence of mind to build these actions into my memory, I'm pretty impressed with my unconscious actions, despite being disappointed with the result.
3:30 PM - David wakes up, realizes he's missed the final, cries temporarily, turns over.
4:30 PM - David wonders how he managed to blink for an entire hour.
6:30 PM - David seriously questions whether that 2 hour blink was actually a blink or what some somnologists refer to as "sleep." Still up for debate.
7:00 PM - David finds out that, as America shuddered and moaned in helpless agony, Roddick has lost. I mourn for my country, my love.

I let my friends down.
I let my family down.
I let Andy Roddick down.
But most of all, I let the United States of America down. For the second time in a single summer. HOW DO I LIVE WITH MYSELF???