FORTUNATELY FOR ME and my yard man, the unwanted visitors I was telling you about earlier have stopped their insidious inundation. Perhaps word got around about the boosted chances of ending up in Stinkbug heaven if they moved into our house.
(Which reminds me of a joke my dad used to tell: A preacher was evangelizing to a group of bums on the street corner--goin' on about heaven and hell. When he was about to wrap up his gospel appeal, he put the question to them, "How many of y'all wanna go to heaven?"
All of them reckoned as how they did wanna go there, except for one man.
Incredulous, the preacher asked him,"You really mean it, you don't wanna go to HEAVEN when you die?!"
"Oh!....," the man exclaimed. "When I DIE?! ......I thought you was gettin' a group together right now!")
At any rate, we've got fewer stinkbugs in the house. But (speaking of moving in and moving out), I went to meet yet another prospective tenant who's hoping to move into the apartment where you-ought-to-know-who, Reader Dear, just moved out. Lo and behold, I arrived back home to discover distant cousins of the stinkbugs had arrived en masse in my absence!
Unlike the stinkbugs, it looks like these cousins all use the very same travel agent--they flock in via the same identical route and head for the very same spot!
Truthfully, I had a clue the trash container was going to be a popular destination for them this spring when I noticed a few migrating there a couple days ago (okay, okay, its true...every year the trash can is like Fort Lauderdale at spring break!) I was not happy, and put little snacks of cayenne pepper along their route, hoping they'd reconsider and opt for some spot with better dining.
And it appeared to have worked! I thought they'd nixed their plans and chosen some other place to hang out. But, no. Here they are again in droves!
Hmm. What to do, what to do? Dear Reader, I've suddenly hit upon an experimental solution: Why not make their experience a bit too overwhelming?! Get them drunk! Goofy drunk, falling- down drunk! Get them so soused that they...well ...they...you know...(do I have to say it, Dear Reader? don't make me say it; I'm starting to feel sorry for them already)...they die.
I've already grabbed up my bottle of genuine Russian vodka and poured a big puddle right in their main thoroughfare. Ohh, this'll be a treat for them--it's 'vanilla,' a gift from a sister-in-law of mine, who stuffed the original bottle with genuine vanilla beans.*
To enhance their ushering-out, as it were, I have Enya on the CD player. Now I'm keeping a keen eye on these unwanted visitors. I should find out soon if they're losing their little spirits due to the spirits.
(Why of course, Reader Dear, of course! You can count on me to keep you posted...)