And now for something completely different.
What’s up Doc?
Walk’s walked home and is walkin’ the walk.
Some Completely Different Bugs
Bugs is a multi-faceted word. My head jerks and bobs atop my neck as I consider the many possibilities for intelligent discussion of this four letter word. I shake and rock my head to and fro attempting to jiggle my thoughts of bugs into order. This is how they shook out and stuck to the screen.
First, I’d say a bug is a small living creature of
the insect variety: a June bug, for example, or
a lightning bug, a spider or centipede. Tired, world-weary bugs sack out with people as they sleep, thus, they’re called bedbugs.
Second, bug can be a verb meaning to bother, annoy or aggravate. Some people bug other people, although they themselves aren’t biologically of the insect variety. Frequently, I’ve desperately longed to slap a human being whose ways mimicked that of an aggravating bug flying and catching at my sleeve.
Thirdly, light-weight illnesses are often referred to as bugs. If someone is said to be down with a bug, it means they’re not feeling well, not that they’re on the floor playing with a spider or cockroach.
Fourth, a concealed listening device is also called a bug. The stuff it picks up will most likely cause irritation to at least one individual, although not the itching, oozing type caused by the bites of creeping bugs.
Fifth, an enthusiast, for example a photography enthusiast, who goes nowhere without a camera, may be labeled as a camera bug. He may charge at you like a June bug, but his click is worse than his bite.
For today, that’s all I have to say about bugs.
I’ll be out on the deck if anyone needs me.
I left you a note in the back row under the desk in Goofing Around-13. It’s important that you read it. Go there now; do not pass go; do not collect $200.
Has anyone mentioned that Shaddy is a compulsive liar?
Testing, testing, testing. I’ve tried twice to post and am not being allowed. I’m off to start sniveling.
Well, I think the problem is it won’t let me post with a link to my blog. Too bad, because that’s where my assignment for GA-14 is posted.
In the meantime, I’ll be on the back deck with Maureen.
–must be some kind of bug.
Doesn’t that bug you?
Maureen accused me of being a compulsive liar. I suspect she’s right. I do have an irresistable urge to say and write things (true or false, it matters not to me) that I perceive may extract a smile from readers.
My question for you Maureen. What is the label for a person who twists perfectly innocent statements until they appear unrecognizably distorted and even naughty? I fessed up, now it’s your turn.
“That bugs me,” Shaddy said as she pointed at the laptop’s screen, “it needs to be bigger.”
“That’s what I always told him,” Maureen said with a smirk, “but he told me 12 inches should be enough for anyone.”
“What bugs me is the hyperbole dogma of my muse.” Gully yells at her computer, “All these letters and spaces are suppose to mean something aren’t they?”
Kathy leans back in her recliner with a glass of Boonesfarm Apricot Splash in her hand, “My muse and I are going to party for a while, I’m bugged by the way you all are bugged.”
“I’ll be bach,” Barbara says, “I’m bugging out to find an extermator to get rid of these bugs that bugging you guys who are bugging me.”
On the other side of the deck Rob and Walk look at each other and shugs their shoulders. Rob IM’s Walk, “I ain’t getting into this conversation, my momma didn’t raise no dummy, besides I’m not bugged at all.”
Walk IM’s back, “You be right, I wasn’t born yesterday even though I do look young. Oh, by the way, isn’t that a spider on your collar?”
Thus began the dreaded Bugged Deck Dance which Rob performed with grace. Afterwards the judges on Dancing With The Stars gave him two 10’s and a 9.
You’re brilliant, Walk.
But, I’m a compulsive liar.
I’m afraid I have nothing to say about bugs that hasn’t been said before and that bugs me.
Boy, you all have me cracking up.
Unless I’m mistaken, this is a new fictional form written by
Gangs of loosely aligned but loyal strangers happily
Stringing out chaotically connected swarms of back-and-forths.
*lifts up foot and looks at sole of flip flop*
Oops! I just stepped on the spider.
Oh, sh!t! Is that a dark cloud?
Don’t be both bugged and silent, my dear. If you’d like to contribute, you may want to say something about me. You could tell the class how I’ve been bugging you since you walked in here. I commend you and believe you’re a wise woman in that you’re ignoring me in hopes that I’ll go away.
Unfortunately, wisdom is useless when dealing with me. I’m like a fruitfly when there’s an over-ripe peach on the counter. As you know, an ignored fruitfly won’t lose interest and go away. I’ll hover around here in GA-14, making a nuisance of myself, until Ann steps in and replaces the peach with something else.
I certainly am a compulsive liar. Something else will just get me buzzing again. Absolutely, nothing will make me go away.
You’re all stuck with me like bugs to fly paper.
Well I’ll tell you what bugs me since you asked. And it is all so unnecessary. If they hadn’t started doing this for everything, then it wouldn’t be a problem for me. And therefore, I’d have one less thing to bug me. But no. They had to go and mess up a good thing, a simple thing, a non-issue and turn it into an issue. And it rubs me the wrong way and I get ill. I mean, it’s bad enough to have to do this every single week. Is there no end to it? Don’t think so. So now, I have this aggravating bug that grates on my nerves and I don’t reckon there’s a darn thing I can do about it. Or is there? Wonder how much of a difference I’d make if I wrote to the newspaper, venting my gripe. Would they listen? Would they actually see that this is a problem that needs to be looked at and possibly fixed? I doubt it, after all, I’m just one person. One middle-aged person, just trying to get by. Just trying to do what I’m supposed to do, you know? You think they will go to the trouble to change anything for me just because it bugs me and causes me to drive home in a fit? No, they won’t. And you know as well as I do that this is here to stay and people like me will have to adapt. It’s my problem it seems. Good grief, I’m getting all in an uproar just thinking about it. And I don’t have to go there until Friday. Is there no way out of this? You know there is not. So, I must take some deep, relaxing breaths before I walk in there on Friday. I must try and convince myself that’s it’s really not such a big deal. Ha. What a crock! But I’ll go, it’s my responsibility. And I’ll suffer through, row after row, shelf after shelf. And I’ll come home, whining and complaining to myself over this thing. And wondering who in the h… came up with this plan to drive older people insane over doing a simple task as grocery shopping. You, yeah, you young people, you laugh now. You think I’m nuts. Well, your time’s coming missy. And then we’ll see who’s laughing and snickering, won’t we? Oh, you know what I’m talking about. Those confounded expiration dates they’ve put on every single think you buy. Like we ain’t smart enough to look for anything unnaturally green growing on something it’s not supposed to grow on. Or we can’t tell if something smells bad and we are not supposed to drink it if it does. Or it pours out in lumps. I mean, Lord God, don’t we know not to drink lumpy milk? But no, we must look for the expiration date stamped on everything. So, okay, over the years, I’ve grown somewhat used to this new way of doing things but here’s my gripe. Here’s what bugs the living daylights out of me. I can’t see the dates without my reading glasses. So, my time in the store is spent staring long and hard at the dates, trying to guess at what it says. I’ve stood there for longer than I care to inform you about and still can’t figure it out. So then, out comes those infernal glasses. I put them on, check the expiration date, take them back off, and travel a little farther down the isle. And then do it all over again. One time I forgot to take my glasses with me. I was oblivious to expiration dates. Took me back to a simpler time. One with common sense. It was wonderfully easy to shop. Oh and the food I took home? I rebelled. I ate it. So what if it expired five days before. I didn’t see anything green growing on it. But then, I didn’t have my glasses on, either.
Well, bugs are small, you know. And it would be discriminatory and selfish to discount them. They’re sometimes so infinitesimally small as to hardly even be there. Or here, as the case may be. But they count, they really do. After all, if it weren’t for bugs, we would not likely be here, or there, or anywhere for that matter. Because bugs have saved our lives. They’ve selflessly gone about pollinating plants for our food. That we need. To live.
And how do we pay them back?
A note to Shaddy…
How long have you had this talent?
My reply to Barbara…
Of which talent are you speaking? I have several that come to mind at this time:
1. To bug people
2. To lie compulsively
3. To write with all my heart and soul, regardless of the consequences.
Ann should have discerned the result of no delineated direction. When deserted and left to our own devices, we are decidedly devoid of discipline.
Zelda? Did you step on my pet spider? Oh, I hope not.
The birds swarmed around the catacombs entrance where the beetles ran thick as blood. The stench of the stale air coming from the cavern turned his stomach. “I feel a bug coming on,” he said, “my belly is churning.”
Kate said, “Don’t get sick on me now. I can’t go down there by myself.”
“Do they really think it’s down there? I’m not too keen on…what the hell it that?” Danny pointed towards the cave. The birds scattered as a huge hairy leg appeared. It stepped in the middle of the beetles, the crunch of insects sounding throughout the area. A second hairy leg appeared and more crunching. The buzz of flying bugs filled their ears.
“Oh my God,” Kate said, “it can’t be, it just can’t be!”
“I’m afraid it is, Kate. I’m afraid it is. Fearless Fly is still alive.”
Fearless Fly. What a relief! For a moment I was afraid you’d all noticed I hadn’t shaved!
My dictionary is absolutely crawling with bugs and bug forms.
Buggy: a small carriage
Bugbane: plant supposed to repel insects
Bugbear: object of obsessive dread
Bugger: a disreputable person
Bughouse: insane asylum
Bugaboo: a steady source of concern
Buggy: infested with bugs, crazy
Wanna hear some more about bugs?
On another sunny afternoon in Bugville , buggies loaded with bug-eyed buggers wove their way to the bughouse. The community regarded this frequent bugaboo with disdain. Most citizens turned their heads from this freaky parade, regarding it as just one more bugbear in their lives.
In Bugville, gardeners responded by planting bugbane, bug moss and bug seed in their front yards. They slammed bugsha on the check out counters in payment for the ugly, repulsive plants. They prayed the buggies would choose some other route.
There once was a bug
Whose name was Doug
He lived in a shag rug
Hoped for a romantic hug
That would make him feel snug
And give his heart a tug
But he turned to the jug
Fill and filled a large mug
And turned into a slug
All I can say is UGH!
I hear the Army Ants are marching on Bugdad.
The frog says: “Times fun when you’re having flies.”
Kerplop. The frog just jumped in after another fly.
Okay, all you writers. This place won’t let me post a link so I’ll have to write it in code. Go to this place without delay, and participate.
sittingpretty magazine(DOT)blogspot(DOT)com(forward slash)
You’ll see a nice picture of Katrina’s home page with Pablo.
Ladybug Haiku, Etc.
Ladybugs are cute.
I love the darn li’l critters
Like flying turtles.
With Spring come the bugs,
Short legs, long legs, wings and all.
Yikes, here comes one now.
Bugs only bug me
If they take me by surprise.
And then bug-eyed, I take flight.
He contols them with his voice
He leads them from your house
He covers them with chocolate
He is…….the Bug Whisperer
Coming to a theater near you
The Bug Whisperer will inspire you
The Bug Whisperer will amaze you
The Bug Whisperer will make you itch
You will want to watch it over and over
Bring your date, your mother, your Aunt Bettie
You won’t forget it.
Youse guys are buggy.
Eeeeeeekkkk! I’m running with my hands over my ears. It’s driving me crazy! It’s playing over and over and over and over in my head. Not positive I have the correct movie but I think I do–“Summer Magic with Hayley Mills (oh, I know, yes, waaaay back in the early ’60’s) A song, I remember a song. Burl Ives. (Don’t even say it, “who is Burl Ives”.) Singing something about the Ladybug Ball. Maybe I’m way wrong but the tune is playing over and over in my head and it won’t stop. Can’t quit tapping my fingers to the beat of the “Ladybug Ball”. Corny. I mean CORNY. Or is it corney. No, that doesn’t look right. I think it’s “corny”. Whatever, it’s stuck in my head. Waaaaahhhhh…make it go away! Wonder if some Boonesfarm Apricot Splash would drown it out. Yeah, Apricot Splash with a splash of Scotch Tape. Yeah. “To the ball, to the ball, to the ladybug ball…”
Relax. Just go to the YouTube site and watch Susan Boyle sing “I Dreamed a Dream” a few times and you can replace the song in your head. Forever. Just like me.
Gully and the rest of the gang:
I like that Sitting Pretty Magazine blog. It’s so interesting to see all the different rooms and desks where authors do their writing.
I’ll add to it ASAP.
Some those folk aren’t in their right mind. Their desk is tooooooo clean. What did you think of the guy with all the books piled up around him? My kind of guy.
I’ll send mine in also, a rare look into Walk Manor.
I don’t know Gullible–not sure Susan Boyle can stand her ground with Burl Ives’ rendition of the Ladybug Ball. But I’ll give it a try.
I can’t work, or think I can’t work, with a messy desk. I submitted my picture and bio a few minutes ago to firstname.lastname@example.org. Since I’m not an official author, they may not publish it, who knows?
I creeped out when I saw the photo of the guy with all the stacks of books around him. I’d get claustrophobia working there.
Perhaps I should at least try working with a mess around me. Who knows what might come running out of me.
Won’t you come visit me at my blog? If you click on my name above you’ll end up there. Come on in, sit down, take your shoes off and stay for a while.
If you leave a comment, I’ll know you were there.
I’m wondering how you were able to post that link here, and I wasn’t even after three tries…
His nightmares continued on night after night. He’d wake up in a cold sweat with the same dream of giant beetles holding down his sheets as cockroaches ate his eye lids. “Don’t come after us,” they would say, “you can never win. There are too many of us. We’ll be here long after you human’s are gone. ”
Still, wearily he made his appointed rounds everyday. He’d get into his white mini-pickup and go into the battle. Where in this world would we be without the Orkin Man?
It appears that we can post e-mail addresses here but not links. Why? I’m not sure.
I bet you’re not too far out with your tale, Walk. Those Orkin men must see things that kind of freak them out.
The usual tension was present during the rare family road trip to Prince Edward Island. We all were weary and ready to stretch our legs but Dick, my stepfather, stubbornly resisted asking for directions and insisted on driving up and down the same unlit dirt road looking for the driveway to the cabins. No one in the back seat spoke for fear that someone in the front would snap.
It was nearing 11 o’clock when we finally pulled into the cabin lot. I’m not sure how we got there. Was the driveway really on that road as Dick had insisted? Maybe I fell asleep or maybe I just put an exceptionally uncomfortable part of the journey out of my mind. Either way, we arrived.
I expected the cabin would be the same as the cabins we stayed in I traveled to “The Island” with my Dad and stepmother. While similar, this cabin felt colder and emptier. While I had great hopes as we set out, I realized that this would not be like traveling with my Dad and strpmother. The rules were different for my mother’s side of the family. Swearing was strictly forbidden and anyone who dared to cuss would get a dirty look from my mother that suggested it was her name that was taken in vain. In my mother’s presence, noise was to be kept to a minimum. That meant loud, obnoxious activities such as laughing and playing games was frowned upon (and maybe even likened to sinning). Cards, dancing, music on the radio, all were forbidden. I wondered why we would torture ourselves in the car for hours to do what we always do but in a different location.
My little sister was barely a toddler. This trip was the first time she was away from home for an overnight trip. She cried uncontrollably. Nothing we could do would settle her down. My mother forgot to pack the Gripe Water, a clear liquid made of herbal infusions and thought to bring relief to babies suffering from colic, gas or upset stomachs. Usually edgy even during low stress times, my mother was about to boil over. In fact, the tension of the ride had carried over into the cabin and we were all poised to snap when I had what I thought was a brilliant idea and dissolved a peppermint in a glass of water in hopes that the familiar minty taste of Gripe Water would soothe my sister and stop the crying. If we had alcohol (oh, if only we had alcohol on these family adventures) I could have slipped a spoonful into her mouth when no one was looking. My mother would have benefited from a sip here and there, too, but there was no telling her that. Alcohol, even the rubbing variety, was a banned substance.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the crying stopped and it was time to go to bed. Upon learning the sleeping arrangements, I felt like crying myself. There were only two bedrooms in the cabin. Grandmother and I were in one room; mom, Dick and Emmy in another. I was horrified that I would have to sleep in a bed with my grandmother. The bed was small. It was a metal frame with a metal springy grate on the bottom to hold the thin, sagging mattress. Plus, I knew this from sleeping at my grandmother’s house when my mother and Dick were on their honeymoon, grandmother snored like nothing I had ever heard before.
Our bedroom was illuminated by an overhead light, a bulb in the ceiling covered by an etched glass shade. I watched moths fly erratically around the light. At least when the light is on we know where they are, I thought. When the light goes off where do the moths go?
I got into bed, my grandmother turned off the wall switch and the room got dark. Once she was beside me in the bed I struggled to keep from rolling into the valley created by her weight. I thought about my father’s side of the family. The movie reel in my head began to play as it had done so many times. I saw what my life could have been had I been given the choice to live with my father instead of my mother.
“I hate moths,” my grandmother’s voice in the dark interrupted the movie in my head. “Do you want me to tell you a bedtime story?” I didn’t answer.
She didn’t acknowledge my silence and continued with her story. “When I was a little girl, I was walking home from my youth group at the church but I had stayed to help stack the chairs and sweep the hall so I was late.”
Yeah, right. Stayed to sweep the hall. Such an angel, I thought bitterly. My mother’s family had a way of making themselves out to be so “Christian.” I knew it wasn’t all like they said but no one who knew was willing to tell the true story. I think they were all afraid of my grandmother.
“My mother told me to be home a certain time but, even though I was doing a good thing and helping at the hall, I was still late and I was still going against my mother. By this time it was dark and I was walking home as fast as I could because I knew my mother was going to be waiting at the door for me worried that something awful happened. Well, God punished me for being late. As I was walking under a street lamp a really big moth – it was this big,” she held up her hands like she was making a shadow of a butterfly on the wall, “flew at me and down my blouse.”
I was horrified. I didn’t know moths got that big.
“It went right at me and I screamed and I tried to kill it by hitting my blouse like this,” she slapped at her chest with both hands, her arms flapping while saying oh, oh, oh. The bed squeaked and moved every time she moved her arms. I felt something touch me on the back of my neck.
“When I got home, the moth was all squashed inside my blouse and my bra. Since then I’ve hated moths. I think God let that happen to show me what happens to girls who don’t do what their mother’s tell them.”
The microscope in my mind magnified every fur on the moths’ hairy, dusty bodies and I inched my way over to the edge of the mattress and toward the foot of the bed so I could keep the sheet tucked tightly around me. I would protect myself from moths in a similar way for many years after.
Someone pass the Gripe Water, quick!
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by Ann Linquist
Available in paperback or on Kindle