"The Cockroach, Such a Disgusting Little Bugger"

I was born and raised in New Jersey, where we had our fair share of disgusting bugs (and people).  Surprisingly, our cockroaches, as nasty as they were, weren't really all that bad.

They were small in size, hid when the lights came on, and, for the most part, only frequented dirty places.  When stepped on, they blew up like little jelly and cream filled donuts. A nuisance, yes . . . disgusting, yes . . . but nothing that a can of Black Flag or Raid couldn't handle.

Then, in the mid-90s, I moved to Florida. It was the land of palm trees, beautiful beaches, and the industrial size cockroach. Florida doesn’t want to scare people, so they call it a palmetto bug, but trust me. It's a cockroach.

The first time I came across one of these monstrosities, I had to do a double- take because I thought I was seeing things. The thing was the size of a freaking peanut butter jar and looked just as crunchy.

I kept my distance from it while trying to find something to smash it with, believing that I was fine, as long as I kept an eye on it. Boy, was I wrong. As I was scurrying about, trying to figure out what household item I should choose to become the bringer of death, the bastard started to move.

Being startled, I jumped back. Keeping my eye on it, I thought I was safe, as long as I could see where the little bastard was. Then, all of a sudden, the creepy brown bug of doom opened up its wings and took flight.

I stood there in awe, as if I were witnessing the second coming of Christ, while not moving a muscle. The nasty thing flew right at me and landed on my chest. I did what all grown men do in that situation. I ran out of the room screaming.

With that freakish critter clinging to the center of my chest as I ran, I looked like a white-trash version of Superman . . . Cockroach man.

It finally fell off of my chest and landed on the floor. Now, with tears running down my face, trying to catch my breath, I went into the kitchen and grabbed some roach spray. I was done playing around.

I came back to find it still sitting in the same spot on the floor, as if it were taunting me and telling me to make my move. It was like we were in a Wild West standoff. I unloaded, spraying nearly the entire can on it, the whole time laughing maniacally like a mad scientist and feeling vindicated. I got the last laugh!

The can was about empty, the cloud of poison was settling, and I was ready to see the dead body lying there so that I could pick it up, flush it down the toilet, and send it to its watery grave.

When all was said and done, it was still alive and kicking; staggering like it had just come home from the bar and had too much to drink. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was freaking out trying to kill this thing, and it was living it up. Partying like it was 1999.

I now had an intoxicated roach on my hands, who was no doubt getting a good laugh at my antics. I must say, I now know how Wile E. Coyote felt . . . stupid Road Runner.

Finally, having had enough, I decided that I was going to step on it and end it all. I didn't have shoes on, so I thought about dropping a piece of paper on it and then jumping on the paper with it under it, but I had a bad feeling that I would jump on the paper, he would take off, and leave me on a roach-powered skateboard. I wasn't having that.

I figured I would do the next best thing. I called the cops and waited outside until they showed up.  I had the officer go inside and kill it for me. The moral?  My tax dollars are working.

MJM