Dear Bugs-of-My-House,
I bet you think you're real fucking clever. That sending a kamikaze / guerrilla-fighter centipede into my bed while I was peacefully reading and just ready to fall asleep was just a genius fucking plan. And I'm sure you were all beside yourselves when I projected myself sideways from the bed screaming "motherfucker!" on end. I would even go so far as to theorize that by getting a billion-legged gross little freak to almost touch me while I was most vulnerable, you thought you could kick the summer off with a bang and attempt to claim dominance in my household.
Well that's just it, bug-fuckers - this is my home. So I hope you got the message last night. I hope you regretted your decisions when I proceeded to Raid my entire house, spraying every opening and marking each doorway with a cross of insect-doom. And I sincerely hope you weren't thinking that that little asshole could hide from me in my own sheets. No no, I found him. And I sprayed him until there was a sizable puddle of poison surrounding his jerk-of-a-carcass on my floor. And while it may have taken another hour of nervous itching to calm myself and sleep, sleep I did.
It's not just the wuss-zombies that are against bugs. For the non-magic zombie, insects are a serious foe in the battle against decomposition. You can try to control your eating habits or attempt various trendy embalming techniques, but there's only so much you can do when you find your left toe has been sequestered by worms, or some flies start eying your ear for their next snack. In conclusion, can we please be sponsored by Raid?
Love,
Brian Reignbow
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