2002-06-27 11:31 p.m.
More than once, someone older and wiser has told me that there is a special place for all of God's creatures in this world—everything enjoys some importance and necessity as a piece in this grand, enigmatic puzzle. For some reason, the world population of retarded and annoying moths have decided that their unique, special place in the universe is my bedroom. I say that the wise man is retarded and his maxim sucks—peaceful coexistence is for pansies. My bedroom is my special place, not theirs. The moths must die. It is time for WAR.
Now, if the circumstances were slightly different, I might not mind that the place where I sleep and keep my belongings is infested with horrible, brown moths. For example, if they were not really brown moths but were actually hot, naked girls or bulging sacks of $20 bills, I would not complain at all. But, for the time being I am stuck with hordes of clothes–devouring Mothras.
The worst thing about moths is that they reproduce at a stupefying rate by a process called spontaneous generation. Spontaneous generation is the belief that some life forms arose spontaneously from non–living matter. [eg., 17th century scientists believed that maggots arose spontaneously in rotting meat.]
With the help of Louis Pasteur—the serial ass–rapist who convinced people that they should boil (aka. pasteurize) and subsequently RUIN the flavor of fruit juices in an attempt to prevent "sickness" and "death"—modern scientists discredited spontaneous generation and left it to die on the dusty shelf of disproved theories...right between maps of the Earth back when it was flat and the dissertations extolling lead as an ideal metal for cookware. But, these so–called ASS–FACED "modern" scientist RETARDOS have obviously never paid a visit to the massive–output moth–infestation mega–factory known as my bedroom, a place where spontaneous generation still rules the Earth.
TWO THINGS ARE FOR SURE:
1) Do not trust Louis Pasteur. He is a bad person and an orange juice wrecker. Orange juice that has been "pasteurized" tastes PATHETIC. Modern science ruined my breakfast.
2) There are orgies of moths participating in 24–hour hardcore XXX spontaneous generation in my bedroom.
They come from everywhere, they come from nowhere. Killing the few moths I can catch is pointless, as they simply spontaneously reappear in greater numbers—like bad drivers, morning radio DJs, and Mexican children. I bet this is how Adolf Hitler felt about the Jews, and I bet he was just as pissed to find out that no matter how many he killed, there were still tons more everywhere. I bet he was like, "What the fuck?" See how pissed Hitler got? He was really upset—and that is how I am starting to feel.
That is why I decided it is time to start my War on Moths. I began my attack by placing blocks of cedar in my closet and drawers. Why cedar? Supposedly, moths hate the natural smell of this fragrant wood. I strategically placed six cedar blocks around my room and waited for the moths to die or pack their bags and leave. Bad news: The moths appeared unfazed! Let's put it this way, sure you can use cedar, but when it comes to brutal human vs. moth warfare, cedar turns out to be the military equivalent of hippie peace rallies, silent prayer vigils, or Ghandhi–style passive resistance—nothing but a perfect opportunity for the wicked, ruthless, ass–faced enemy to rise up and gnaw my sweaters and jackets.
Ok—time to crank up the violence. We invested in some fancy anti–moth weapons: compressed chemical patties resembling nuclear urinal cakes. Sometimes sold under the guise of "moth killing tablets", "moth deterrent", "urinal cakes", or "piss pies", these caustic, toxic white discs emit an odor that is not only strong enough to seriously piss off moths, but—unlike stupid cedar—actually will kill them when in a closed area with limited airflow, such as a closet or small bedroom. The instructions read, "Extremely poisonous! Danger! Do not let this product come in contact with skin or eyes or articles of clothing." Whoa. From what I could glean from the packaging, the same active moth–smiting ingredients also made this product suitable for killing plants, animals, bacteria, fungi and ME.
Taking great care to not let the toxic chemicals touch my skin, I opened the package up and scattered the toxic discs around my room. Their painful super–urinal smell penetrated my nose and brought about an acute awareness: Not only would the moths likely die from this, but so would I.
I breathed deeply in and out and allowed my attention to turn reverently for a moment to the burning in my nose and throat and lungs. And at that moment I experienced a glimmer of resignation like a shooting star just before dusk—better to die than to live a life constantly shrouded by clouds of swarming, horrible, ass–raping moths.
Since then, the moths have weakened, but, so has my health and to some degree my will to live. Waking up is difficult these days, as I think the chemicals suffocate me in my sleep. The hand of God which I summoned to smite them has smitten me as well. I am not sure which is worse, the health risks of living with the nuclear piss cakes, or that my bedroom smells like a sports bar men's restroom turned up to full volume.
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