Consider this: You’re facing death (total annihilation), its reflection is staring you in the face. In other words; you are about to enter into the after-life.
Meaning? You’re dead, no life.
So you frantically begin to look for a solution to your little problem when all of a sudden, this Jack Kevorkian type comes up to you holding the solution right in the palm of his hand.
At first, you’re terrified of the idea, but that’ll only last until you go into a full blown panic! Now you start to scurry about looking for a possible way out. You look left, you look right, you look up, you look down, you look… totally miserable.
BUT YOU’RE A FLY ON MY WINDOW, so that comes natural.
That’s when fate steps up to lend you a hand and in this case its my hand, and its holding a rolled up magazine. That’s right, I’m your Doctor Kevorkian. I’m your doctor death—AND I’M PACKING.
Face it Mr Fly, you entered my home illegally.
Of course, your first instinct is to buzz around a lot and I can appreciate that—although, it’s totally irrational—but you’re a fly its what you do.
If it were me, I wouldn’t be a fly, and I certainly wouldn’t wanna be in your shoes right now. But your kind don’t wear shoes—so no worries there.
However, I still wouldn’t wanna find myself trapped against that glass door—BUZZING ALL ABOUT. That looks totally stupid—even more so if I were you.
But I’m not you, you’re Mr. Fly (or is it Mrs. Fly?) and you’re trapped against the glass door, my glass door, and now you are DOOMED!
Come to think of it, I’ve never really stopped to find out your exact sex. But, that’s likely because I’ve never had the time to dissect any of you guys afterwards.
You know why? BECAUSE YOU ALL SEEM TO SHOW UP AT DINNER TIME.
Well they’ll be no autopsy for you today either (lucky you), because I hate cold dinners, and it would probably ruin my appetite anyway.
Besides, I don’t have any microscopic Pathology tools on hand—they’re currently on back order from Amazon.
But just you wait (well, not you per se), because when those tools of torture finally do arrive I’ll have a whole new career in front of me… that of… INSECT CORONER.
Second class, of course, after all I’m still a beginner.
It’s a course I’m taking from a big (FOR PROFIT) online college. Their school phamplet says it’s a growing field—probably because there’s plenty of you. So when I get finished with my degree (in about 12 years), I’ll be making a killing.
Which should help me pay off about a sixteenth of my new found student loan debt.
But I don’t have to explain any of this to you, do I? Because Mr. or Mrs fly, you’re going to be long gone by then b e c a u s e… I’m… a b o u t… to… s m a s h you into…
YOU OPENED THE SLIDING GLASS DOOR AND LET THE STUPID FLY OUT!
“Well how was I supposed to know? All I wanted to do was come back into the house after watering my garden. Instead, I find myself being greeted at the glass by my idiot husband who apparently was attempting to talk a fly to death.”
“Skills stupid, get a fly swatter, and then go finish the job.”