Friday, November 18, 2005

All you need is a gust of crisp, uncompromising subzero wind and you know: Old Man Winter’s here, and he just renewed your membership for another three months. Other creatures apparently have received the same proposition, insects with limbs multifarious who’ve accounted for a groundswell of immigration to my apartment.

I’ve murdered three centipedes in the past two weeks, which in bug terms is prodigious, surpassing even my summer kill count in sheer density. I could be more ecumenical, I suppose, and warmly welcome beasts of different colors, sizes, and poison levels, but this isn’t Ellis Island. This is wintertime, Chicago, where the huddled, squirming, and frighteningly quick masses will be crushed.

Crushing, however, isn’t the preferred way to go. Way too messy. If you’re hunting centipede, I recommend sprays for optimal cleanliness-to-death quotient–even cleaners like Fantastik will work just fine. You see, these bastards are very mobile, but they’re very porous as well, what I’d strategically deem “soft targets.” They’ll soak up liquid and take it to heart, water notwithstanding. Spray them on the wall and they’ll probably detach and demonstrate the meaning of scurry, though, so don’t lose sight of your quarry.

Cockroaches are entirely different, since they’re built to last. “Hard targets,” if you’ll indulge me, and thankfully these almost never appear. Bludgeoning them to death is the best option, I’d argue, Neanderthaloid as it may seem. A few months ago, after spending the better part of a week on an adult, it felt wrong to slam it with a toilet brush repeatedly. I’m talking short-lived guilt, particularly because the dustbin was right there.