Osama bin Bedbug

It says something about the state of the nation that more Americans are fearful of bedbugs than they are of Osama bin Laden.

I’ll bet if given a choice the majority of adults would rather eliminate bedbugs than bin Laden.

Not me. In my dreams, I’d like to see a group of our brave soldiers capture him alive and turn him over to Dick Cheney. I loathe Cheney and everything he represents, but I can’t think of a better misanthrope to deal with the terrorist who is still the world’s most wanted man.

Alas, It’s looking more and more likely bin Laden will die of old age than at the hands of American justice. That’s infuriating.

There’s just no news about him. The ninth anniversary of 9/11 is just nine days away and he’s becoming more and more of a memory.

I still remember all the dead-or-alive promises President Bush made while standing on the still smoldering rubble of the World Trade Center. I believed him. 

Who would have imagined that after all the trillions of dollars and all the bullets and bombs that he’d still be free?

It’s unbelievable.

Of course, so is the news that bedbugs are everywhere.

I guess the best I can hope for now is that bin Laden’s someplace lousy with bedbugs, but that could be any number of four-star New York hotels. 

They’re everywhere. And the fact that we were all raised on that nimble little nursery rhyme makes them all the more menacing. 

I guess if I had to use just one word to describe the mood of the nation right now it would be “itchy.”

Bedbugs are driving everyone nuts -- even those of us who live where none have been sited. It’s just that time of year when everything will stick you, sting you or stab you, to paraphrase Rooster Cogburn.

I’ve never looked forward to putting a summer behind me more than this one. It’s just been miserable. There was the oil spill, joblessness, Biblical flooding and now bedbugs.

I know we’re taught to believe everything serves a purpose in nature, although for the life of me I can’t figure what it is for bedbugs and people like Levi Johnston.

How would we be worse off if every malaria-ridden mosquito or blood-sucking bedbug simply vanished overnight?

That seems to be happening with bees and that’s alarming. Bees, I understand, pollinate the planet. We need them.

Yet, they’re disappearing at a confounding rate even as the bedbug population explodes.

Problem: Too few bees, too many bedbugs. Solution: find a way to turn bedbugs into bees.

Potential nightmare glitch: bedbees.

I posted that little equation on Facebook and was electrified by the response.

One former student of mine suggested I dash off a screenplay for a 3D movie -- “Bedbees!” -- that would take off along the lines of “Piranha!”

Brilliant! I told Andy he’s either a genius or was recently taught by one.

Eric suggested the movie could open with a Jaws-like sequence where a lovely and topless woman fell on a bed after a night of drunken revelry and was set upon by a matress of deadly bedbees.

The idea’s taken hold and now I may just spend the rest of the afternoon dreaming up scenarios for the screenplay of “Bedbees!”

This is one creative itch I simply must scratch.

When summer sucks

I guess for me the tipping point came as the checker-sized spider began its descent into my beer mug. That’s when I thought, “Gee, I’m looking forward to winter.”

It’s been five months since I was last up to my butt cheeks in snow and five months hence from when I could again be in that same bitter situation.

Happens all the time. I get fed up with what I once craved and begin yearning for what I used to loath.

The realization makes me want to secure weights to my torso and dive off a boat in the center of a very deep lake.

Here in western Pennsylvania we are blessed with four robust seasons -- and I love something about each of them.

But I resent the extremes mingled amidst the splendid moderation, clear skies and low humidity.

There are, I think, on average about nine whole days of that.

I’ve tried to weigh the conditions and determine which extreme makes me more miserable.

Right now, my misery meters are all flashing red, as are unprotected patches of my farmer’s tan.

On top of the recent heat wave, we’ve been two weeks now without air conditioning. That’s not as bad as it sounds.

We live up in the woods where it’s shady and cool. Even with a functioning air conditioner, we’d only be running it from about 4 to 7 p.m. to keep the day’s heat at bay and ready the house for comfortable slumber.

The worst part is that it’s noticeably cooler by about 3-degrees outside where a light breeze might ruffle the leaves. It be mostly pleasant if not for all the bees, spiders and mosquitos.

“Watch out! Everything that moves out here will either bite ya, stab ya or stick ya!”

That’s what Rooster Cogburn warned in “True Grit.”

It was true of the Wild West and it was true Saturday evening when my wife and I opened a bottle of wine to sip on the porch after our itchy little kids had gone to sleep.

It should have been the perfect antidote to all my agitation.

Instead, it only made things worse.

Bugs sturdy enough to penetrate the humidity commenced their assault. Nearby, mentally deficient neighbors began lighting cheap firecrackers. There would be no relaxing, no romance.

This is the primal edge winter has over summer. Cold induces snuggling. Heat impedes it.

Winter affords us a caveman comfort with plenty of soulful solace.

We huddle around the hearth, sip hot chocolate and settle in for a long day of family TV. Photoshop Lassie in the corner and the tableau would be heartwarming enough to sell war bonds.

In fact, winter’s main problem is an excess of cabin fever solace.

I think of this on the porch as I watch my family behave as if it has joined one of those self-flagellation sects.

Val’s rhythmically slapping random parts of herself. The oldest daughter seems intent on impressing us with her coordination by using her right hand to slap insects lighting on her belly while her left hand scratches her right shoulder.

The youngest, God help her, is running in circles trying to scratch an unreachable back itch. She reminds me Curley, everyone’s favorite Stooge, running circles on the floor.

I don’t notice the spider until is is about two inches from my nose and making a cross-insect bee line for my beer. I’m hypnotized by the exotic bug and outraged that it might take my beer without seeking permission.

Josie sees it and screams.

The shout shakes me free of my stupor. I bring my hands together like mighty invisible crash cymbals. Bug guts fly and the still twitching octoped lands in my Yuengling.

With a stony calm I hope she’ll recall when she thinks about doing things that upset me like go on a date, I ask Josie to dispose of the beer and fetch me a fresh one.

The girls wisely keep their distance the rest of the stifling night.

And that’s my tipping point. I’ve had it with summer.

And I reserve the right to reverse this complaint in five months when the snows are up to my ass and the family solace is practically streaming out my wazoo.