When you live in the country it’s more or less a foregone conclusion that on a daily basis you’ll be forced to look at things that bum you out. For example, it’s a pretty painful tableau when you’re about to slice onions and you reach for the trusty mandoline, but suddenly, blamm! A big-ass beetle reclining insouciantly on the handle. It’s an entity-class bug. It has its own zip code, can be seen from space, etc.
“Whoa!” quoth the startled crone.
Gargantuan arthropods in the house? Come on. I get that bugs, even the big-ass ones, are diminutive relative to human architecture; nevertheless I can’t fathom how so many of them manage to get inside. The bunkhouse is constructed of solid, sealed and caulked material, but I swear I’d have fewer buggal encounters if I were camping in a tropical rainforest with nothing separating me from the poetry of the earth but a mosquito net with several large holes in it. And what’s with these huge specimens brazenly infesting kitchen gadgets in broad daylight? Look, I’m down if they choose to regard the dank, dark crevices of seldom-opened closets as luxury resorts, but it’s simply going too far when they start striking louche poses on the cheese grater.