I hate crickets. That’s right, I said it. I hate ’em. Even you, Jiminy, you crank.
In some countries, these little bits of horror are considered lucky. I can’t imagine why. Is it lucky because hey, now you know you have excellent hearing what with their constant freaking chirping? You know, like chirp, chirp, chirp HERE I AMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!! There is actually a children’s book called The Very Quiet Cricket. That book is a lie. I have never known a a cricket to be quiet except when I’m about to corner the creepy thing and he shuts up, knowing I’m on to him. At the end of the book the cricket finds his voice (spoiler alert) and there is this cute chirping noise and slam, slam, slam goes the book!
Why the AliceRage at these innocent little insects? Well, we’ve recently had a cricket invasion. One cricket found his way in and then shouted out to all his cricket frat buddies “Heyyyyy, guys, come on in! There’s chicks here, I just know it!” And so they came. And they hid in their little holes, each one singing out a song of romance. If I could speak cricket, I’m sure it would sound something like this.
It’s just as annoying in chirps as it is in words, I’m here to tell you. None of them seems to get the idea that there ARE NO FEMALE CRICKETS HERE. Really, keep rubbin’ them wings together (My husband informed me they rub their wings, not their legs, like I give a crap. I’m going to break their legs if I find them.)
I’m not actually a violent person. Well, not against living things, anyway, virtual peeps don’t count. They don’t. Boppo, I’m still coming for you. Anyway, I will genuinely feel bad if I squash out the tiny life of a spider. Not as bad as I would feel if he crawled up my leg, but bad. Yet it’s different with these crickets. These crickets employ a torture method much like Chinese water torture, only with chirps. Chirp . . . chirp . . . chirp . . . chirp . . . chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp! Until you finally go insane. You’re ready to either kill the thing or jam one of those ear cleaners up your ear canal as seen on TV.
We’ve managed to catch a few. Instead of giving them burials at sea (toilet) as any normal person would do, my husband takes them outside, like he’s some sort of Cricket Whisperer or something. Fly, be free cricket! Free to turn right around and come back into my house! I swear they do. There can’t be this many crickets alive in the known world.
My husband thought it’d be a cute idea to tell Thing Two to create “cricket traps” before he left today. Ha ha, yes, thank you. So we have weird contraptions all over the house, baited mostly with marshmallows held over a bucket of water. One of them, though, was a Halloween bucket containing a couple of potato chips set down in a laundry basket with a rope leading from it. And – it worked. It actually worked. She then, just like dad, took it outside and dumped it.
So why don’t I search and find them and stomp them? Because as much as I hate chirping, I’m scared of bugs. I know, it’s stupid, but nothing should have more than two legs, I’m telling you. It’s just wrong. So I guess till then I learn to live with the crickets. Kind of like my comments section on certain days.
crickets . . .