All those people who effing hate earwigs, say I.
Eff it I hate those bastards. Effing disgusting. And terrifying as sin.
Have you noticed, or is it just me, that they are freaking everywhere this year. Everywhere. Everywhere I look, they are there. Squirming and creepy-crawling.
They emerge from every corner of my universe. They are on the deck, and under plant pots, and on the hose nozzle, and in the cracks of doors. Even on the kitchen floor. And they love our garage door entry code panel thingie. Every time we raise the cover, there they are. Scurrying away like the disgusting, pathetic, puke-inducers they are.
And this morning they crossed the line. This morning there was one – oh god, I can’t even say it out loud – in my towel. My TOWEL?! Are you effing kidding me?
Too far, earwigs. TOO DAMN FAR.
I almost put the towel over my head to wrap it up into one of the babushka head things and there was an effing EARWIG waiting for me. Just what need – an earwig to actually climb into my ear and eat my brain via the direct route of my bath towel.
I’m going to throw up.
And get this. Then Hubby went down to the basement to get his clothes off the laundry rack. Guess what was lurking between the folds of fabric? Yep. You got it.
TOO EFFING FAR.
What are we supposed to do? The house isn’t infested (yet), but they are getting in. And they are finding the worst effing places to hide. I shouldn’t have to be on constant effing earwig guard in my own damn house, should I?
Am I the only one with a mind-numbing hatred / pee-my-pants fear of these wiggly pinchy effers? I think not.
If you, too, are suffering from earwig mania, let me hear you. C'mon folks, sing it from the rooftops. Chant it with me. Too damn far, earwigs. Too far!