The story you are about to read is true, and no names have been changed to protect the author’s pride.
Sunday morning I’m lounging in my boxer shorts in the recliner when I catch a glimpse of something from the corner of my eye. Focusing in, I notice a horribly big wasp buzzing against the skylight. Although I am not in immediate stinger danger, I decided to deal with the intruder now.
Though my prey was a more worthy adversary than a mere housefly, the weapon chosen was the flyswatter. I reasoned it’s whip like action would suit my insect annihilation needs, besides I thought, wasps do fly.
Not being Manute Bol, and having a vaulted ceiling meant that the wasp was still out of reach. I briefly considered the ladder, but since that would involve walking all the way out to the attached garage, I decided to stand on the coffee table instead. I was quite comfortable with this choice since I was a veteran coffee table dancer at numerous college parties.
I should mention at this point that my lovely wife is a total clean freak who keeps the coffee table polished to a black ice gleam. I climb atop the coffee table with the grace of a Clydesdale, the table creaks and groans something like I imagine a wooden ship sounds like when trapped in crushing arctic ice. I don’t give up, deciding that if I stand on the edges, over the corner leg parts of the table, all will be okay. This is not ideal wasp fly swatting position: off balance, questionable footing, tricky shot, but I’ve also nestled a hooded seven iron off hard pan, under a tree from 145 to 6 feet so I think I can make this happen.
So there I stand stocking feet, on a slippery elevated surface, leaning left, ready to swat the wasp. Because of geometry, I need to reach into my Wimbledon bag of tricks to summon a McEnroesque backhand. A swing and a miss! This does nothing but piss the wasp the f-off, he buzzes at me intently, I panic and instinctively start swinging wildly in all directions beginning to summon John McEnroe’s vocabulary was well. The whip like fly swatter has a mind of it’s own and lives up to it’s moniker by dealing a direct swat to MY fly…..the boxers afford scant protection from impact; down goes Frazier to the floor. The wasp circles above, mocking me.
I collect my composure and decide to give it another go, but the ladder is still all the way out in the attached garage. I stand on a kitchen chair.