The Apocalyptic Wasp Spray of Cosmic Doom

Mhall46184@aol.com

The Apocalyptic Wasp Spray of Cosmic Doom

As with rattlesnakes, fire ants, and presidential candidates, the purpose of wasps within the glory of Creation is a great mystery.

Big red Communist wasps, their wicked, batlike wings pulsating slowly to the degenerate rhythm of a pagan blood-song of pain, lurk in porch corners - or along any of Donald Trump or Scott Walker’s Berlin walls - and then attack with a sting as painful and bitter as a glare of disapproval from a poll watcher from the other party who sees you voting in The Wrong Primary.

As the old hippie song does not say: Wasps! Unh! What are they good for!? Absolutely nothin’!

And if the county agricultural extension agent tells you that wasps are a beneficent species because they blah, blah, blah, she’s probably a Fascist or something. So there. Tell me something. End of. And stuff. And other logical rebuttals.

Real Americans buy aerosols of toxic poisons for sending wasps to the Grendel-doom they’ve earned. If the environment must be destroyed in order that wasps die, that’s a fair and reasonable exchange.

Usually the sprays work, but sometimes the wasps fly insolently away, unimpressed with better dying through chemistry.

What this world needs is a really good wasp spray. The ideal wasp spray would not kill wasps instantly, though. Oh, no. The perfect bug bomb would send each wasp spinning down like The Red Baron in flames, thudding to the ground still alive but dying in such gruesome (or is that grueful?) pain that the progressive Renaissance practice of hanging, drawing, and quartering would seem like a walk in the mall.

The American consumer wants that wasp to feel the soul-destroying existential despair of a freshman football player at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville when he (or “zhe”) is told that the name of his (or “zher”) team has been changed from The Tennessee Volunteers to The Incredible Edible Eloi.

The dying wasp must wallow in the same agony as a traveler doomed to wander throughout eternity the wretched-hive-of-scum-and-villainy hallways of Newark International Airport.

The dying wasp must be made to feel the ghostly chill that reduces even the bravest, strongest young manly-man into a quivering emotional puddle when he arrives at school on Monday morning and suddenly remembers that he is scheduled to take an algebra II exam at 0800.

The dying wasp must experience total bleakness of spirit as he realizes in his last moments that, just like a Republican in the summer of 2015, his life suddenly has no meaning after all. And that’s really hairy.

The dying wasp must sob in spasms of grief and sorrow, rather like a hungry child standing in line for her Michelle Obama lunch.

The dying wasp must be made to scream in horror like an ear-banging-hammer-metal-scum-rock DJ who finds that he is scheduled to work the three-day All Lovin’ Spoonful All The Time Festival.

Anyone who has ever applied cold compresses to a swollen, wasp-stung ear can only wonder why wasps were allowed to board the Ark and unicorns were not.

We need a meaner wasp spray.

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