BUGS ARE DICKS

Dust Mites? More like DICK Mites, amIright?!

Oh man, I am so tired. Another 16 hour day today, just like the yesterday and the day before that and every day before that since I can remember. Why all the 16 hour days? Well, first there’s the day job; then I rush over towards the theater and eat a dinner that’s either a sandwich from Starbucks, a Lunchables, or nothing because I don’t have time or forget to eat; then it’s a rehearsal and/or class and/or show(s); then I OBVIOUSLY have to go out for “one drink” after because if I don’t I’ll miss something awesome and feel anxious about it. Yes, Mom, I’m totally making sure I’m getting enough sleep. I know, and I told you, I’m not burning the candle at both ends. Well, if I could make a living doing improvisational comedy, I would, but I can’t. Because it’s really difficult to do. Very few people do. I told you, it’s normal not to get paid to do improv and the sooner you and Dad believe me about that, the better a mood I’ll be in at Thanksgiving. Yes, I promise I know what I’m doing with my life. I have never been more sure of anything. I completely have things under control, Mom, I promise. I know what I’m doing with my life. I have a handle on things!!!

…Anyway, I can’t wait to get home and go to sleep after I watch bullshit TV for too long and fall asleep on the couch before falling asleep in bed. And this is one of those nights when I want to just sleep alone - it’s one of those rare nights where I don’t want to be spooning with a hot musician and could give a shit if my aloof cat wants to come cuddle or not. I want to sprawl, face down, in the position of a skydiver with my head just buried in my pillows. Solo sleep. That’s what I need.

Only here’s the thing, Bugs Are Dicks readers: you’re never sleeping alone. Any time you are in a bed, you are with anywhere between 10,000 to 10 million dust mites.

For the rest of this entry, try not to look at the above picture, but rather try to imagine the dust mites like this, because it could prevent you from going insane:

Don’t say I never gave you anything.

There are a lot of reasons why I never, ever should have written this, mostly because this blog is called “Bugs Are Dicks” and in my head, bug=insect, and dust mites aren’t insects. They have 8 legs and belong in the spider family, specifically the genus Dermatophagoides, which means “skin-eater!” Isn’t that pleasant? That said, dust mites aren’t spiders, either, because they only have one body segment. They are a stupid microscopic half-bug, belonging nowhere, accepted by no one in the general bug world. Well, nowhere except for in mass numbers in your mattress and pillows and furniture and carpet.

I know what you’re thinking. “Why, oh god why? Please, for the love of everything decent in the world, why? What could possess science to create such horrible, horrible things? All I want to do is hold a knife to my neck now. Maybe press it into the skin a little bit… just a little bit… just to see how it feels, to see if it feels better than I do right now. Maybe I’ll sit naked, legs apart, on my electric stove and turn it on, waiting for it to get to its highest temperature, just to feel something other than this. Please. Please make this end.” And I’m sorry. But this is the magnitude of the dickishness dust mites bring with them, and if we all live together, you might as well know what the deal is. So here it is.

DIET: They live in our beds and couches because they eat our dead skin flakes. If you have a pet, they also live there, because your pet has skin too. Your baby’s crib? Yep. Anywhere where anything with skin hangs out for extended periods of time, that’s their fucking wheelhouse.

MOLTING: Their skin is hard, so they molt a number of times as they grow, leaving their molted skins all over your favorite things. So for each of the potentially 10 million dust mites you have in your mattress, there are multiple molted shells everywhere also. Just shells of dust mites. Just in your bed.

POOP: They eat your dead skin flakes and then poop ‘em out in your bed. A LOT. And if that’s not enough, their poop causes asthma. So when some poor bastard kid has an asthma attack on a soccer field, it’s because of dust mites. Their poop also causes allergies - have a “dust allergy?” That’s cute that you think it’s actually because of the dust. It’s because of their skin poop.

MATING: This wouldn’t be a Bugs Are Dicks without the mating bit, and if you’re thinking dust mites fall into the Creep category of bug sex, you are super correct! This weird website I’m reading right now says that the male dust mites are “so anxious to mate” that they often grab premature females - sometimes when they’re barely out of the larva stage - and use their enlarged first and third pairs of legs to HOLD ON TO HER UNTIL SHE MATURES AND IS READY TO MATE and then promptly MATE WITH HER. It’s like a grown man kidnapping a 4th grade girl and keeping her in his basement until she gets her period and then bangs her once and lets her go, which I think we can all agree is A HORRIFIC FUCKING NIGHTMARE. But it’s happening. In your bed. Every night. Millions of times.

I think the case is closed, and the verdict is FUCK THESE RAPEY ASSHOLES IN THEIR FACES.

Now, the big question is do I have any friends left?

Dung Beetles Are Some Lazy-Ass Shit Eaters

Oh GREAT. Here comes the dung beetle. Quick, quick, look away… don’t acknowledge him, Marc, just look away… here, pretend to be looking at this sign with me… no no, even better, look like we’re in a deep conversation - here, like, lean into me a little bit like we’re talking in hushed tones about two friends’ recent divorce or something… don’t look up… yeah, he’s still coming this way, just… no, I don’t think he’s looking at us… I mean he sees us, yeah, but he’s not looking at… oh shit, I just made eye contact with him… I’m sorry, I didn’t do it on purpose!… okay, when he gets closer we’ll just give a terse nod and continue right back into our conversation… don’t say a fucking word, Marc, or he’ll stop and talk to us, not one fucking word… okay… he’s almost up to us…okay and now, just a terse, silent nod………………….. aaaaaaaaaand he’s gone. Whew! Jesus Christ, that was close. Wait, what?… Marc, I am NOT mean!… no I’m not! you didn’t want to talk to him either! No one wants to talk to him… because nobody likes him… if you want to talk to him so bad and be “neighborly” then why don’t you, huh? I don’t see you going to his cookouts… oh please, I don’t care if he “tries,” okay?… Yeah, well Marc, maybe he should try to stop rolling a giant ball of shit all over town, did you think about that???

So let’s just get this out on the table right off the bat, pun intended. Dung beetles. Eat. Shit. They eat it. They eat shit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They eat shit for that mid-morning snack. They eat it at dinner parties and while they’re watching the game. They eat it on first dates. They eat shit and only shit, and they don’t even drink water or anything because everything they need to survive is in the shit that they eat exclusively. It’s like they’re vegetarians, but if vegetables were shit. For their birthdays, sure, they celebrate with a cake, but that cake is made out of shit. They like nachos where the nachos and salsa and sour cream and guac and jalapenos are shit. On a hot day hanging out with their bros, sure, they’ll say, “Hey man, beer me,” only the beer is a clump of shit. Dung beetles be eatin’ mad shit, yo.

And not only that, but they’re total lazy dicks to each other about it. Here’s how it all goes down. According to my standard Wikipedia research, they start by searching out shit using their extremely sensitive sense of smell. That super sense seems like a bit of a waste, since that’s how everything that’s alive ever regardless of how well they can smell locates shit, too. When an animal takes a shit, they come running, especially if it’s an herbivore because that’s what they prefer (picky picky!). That is, if they aren’t hanging out in the animal’s butt hair waiting and watching for the buffet to open (I’M SORRY BUT I AM LEAVING THAT IN).

And then the chase is on, because for every dung beetle rolling a ball of shit to bring home and eat, there is another one waiting for it to get big enough to steal. Think the cornucopia scene of The Hunger Games. When one dung beetle goes in for another’s shit ball, an insane fight begins that’s bloody and ugly. They run all over the ball like crazy, using their horns to gouge each other in the eyes. Sometimes it involves both of the beetles using the shit ball as a weapon, like in Indiana Jones. Which would be cool if it didn’t involve a giant ball of shit.

Another thing: dung beetles use shitballs to lay their eggs in. In that context, the shitball is called a “brooding ball,” and it’s not uncommon for females to fight to the death over fresh brooding balls. The females each have a crazy horn they use to murder each other. The horn is gigantic and way more scary than the male dung beetle’s wimpy little man horns. Lady dung beetles are total badasses and are not to be fucked with. Which would be cool if it didn’t involve a giant ball of shit.

The female dung beetle will fuck you up.

Oh, also, once they have their ball of shit that they’ve killed other dung beetles over, they can use light waves from the moon to navigate. They’re the only living thing that we know of that can use the moon’s light waves to navigate. Which would be cool if it didn’t involve a giant ball of shit.

On top of that, they are the strongest insects in the world. They can push up to 10 times their weight. That would be like a man rolling a VW Beetle around (WHAT A COINCIDENCE). One particular type of dung beetle can roll up to 1,141 times its weight, or the equivalent of six Megabuses full of people. This comes in handy for rolling balls of shit the size of six Megabuses around. It also proves helpful when mating with females, a process that is frequently interrupted by other males who are trying to separate the mating beetles so they can steal the female away, turning a romantic evening into that classic dance of fucking and fighting, fucking and fighting. AND, in a Darwinian twist, the males that aren’t as strong? They don’t lose out either, because the less strong a dung beetle is, the bigger its balls are. So the ladies basically have their pick of muscle-bound studs with tiny balls or tiny little skinny guys with giant balls. And apparently they like both. The weaker ones will just hang out near a mating pair and once the beefcake is done, the little guy will saunter up and flash his balls at the girl beetle and be all, “Now that you’ve had an appetizer, I got what you REALLY want.” And then he’ll have to lead her to a secret hidden place to do it, because if a stronger beetle sees them it’s game over. It’s heroic and sad at the same time.

So basically, aside from them being totally lazy pricks who steal each others’ food and women, the dung beetle is kind of close to being… well, awesome. They’re actually pretty hardcore when it comes to living - aggressive and smart with badass horns and either super strength or over-sized genitalia.

Too bad all of the badassery they have is driven by their desire to eat shit. Because have I mentioned that? That’s what they eat. Shit.

June Bugs: Engineering Disaster or Drunk Assholes? Either Way, They Suck.

Hey, friend with the best porch out of all of us. Thanks for having everyone in our gang over this evening. I can’t think of a better way to end this perfect day. Oh, here, let me help you run the extension cord through your window so that we can listen to some nice chill summer beats while we nurture our friendships and share stories and relax outside. The weather is just perfect, isn’t it? This slight breeze is just really invigorating. There’s something about the way your porch light is glowing that makes me feel like I have a light blanket wrapped around me. I am already filing this night away as one of the best, one that I will recall fondly for years. Oh! I almost forgot! I brought some ingredients to make Old Fashioneds, because I feel like that’s the perfect drinkAHHH WHAT THE FUCK EW JESUS CHRIST SOMEONE GET IT OFF ME PLEASE WHY WON’T IT GET OFF MY SHIRT GET OFF WHAT THE FUCKING SHIT??!?!?!!?

Oh, June Bugs. Every year I forget you exist. Every year, you remind me by slam-landing on some really inconvenient part of my clothing and just clinging until I either see you and scream my annual welcome or sit on you and smoosh you on the butt of my shorts. Every year you storm into my life, bobbing about in the air like a hot mess.

Science (Wikipedia!) says you pricks can’t fly real good and therefore run into things like trees and doors and my breasts because you’re “designed poorly.” Bug scientists, dedicated to studying why you guys and all of your friends are such fucktards, claim that your hard, outside wings are too big for your bodies. They claim you’re “clumsy” as a result. CLUMSY! That’s a bigger fucking understatement since the entire population of decent Americans deemed Todd Akin a flesh-sack full of sumo wrestlers’ shit. You guys are SO much more than clumsy. Every time you fly it looks like you’re flying for the first time. You swerve around, dipping and drifting until you either slam into something vertical and cling to it (LIKE ME) or make the most laughable landing in the entire bug community. Here’s the thing, though, the thing I find most interesting about that fact: THE ONLY FUCKING THING YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE GOOD AT IS FUCKING FLYING. That’s like, what you assholes DO. You saying, “We jus don’t fly real good, we’s designed bad,” is like a baby saying it doesn’t know how to ruin every restaurant experience for everyone ever everywhere.

And landing! Every time you purposefully land on something it looks like a goddamn emergency, like you’re a plane that’s being piloted by a blind 3-year-old with no hands and a fused shoulder. You sloppily zero in on your landing spot, seemingly full of panic, and then CRASH, you thud onto it like a fucking anvil in a Roadrunner cartoon. It’s pathetic. Then, you usually fall over, either from the impact or from shame, and GOOD FUCKING LUCK getting up. Because your outside wings are “too heavy,” so you can’t roll over. Boooooo hoooooooo! Sounds like a big dumb fucking excuse for you not wanting to do anything for yourfuckingselves.

But here’s my thing… Science is wrong about this one. I’m on to you. Because you know what I think? I think you guys are the drunken entitled frat boys of the bug world.

What, did you drink too many Jäger bombs at your Playboy Mansion themed party and then decide to see what else was going on tonight? Not enough ladyholes to put your dicks into where you were, so you decided to look elsewhere? Well sorry, brahs, but we don’t have any more brewskies here. And we don’t have a Beirut table either, no. No beer funnel, either. Nope, not even the one that looks like a skull. Uh, no, we are not calling strippers to come over here… because, that’s not what this particular porch gathering is about… no, I’m not against strippers in general, I even had a whole stripper-for-hire experience myself in Vegas one time, but that’s not the vibe of tonight. I mean, don’t you get that? Can’t you feel where you are and act accordingly? I’m not being uptight, I’m not an uptight chick; don’t turn your intolerable douchebaggery into me being “uptight” because—what thing, what are you talking about? That thing in that last sentence? It’s a fucking SEMICOLON YOU DIPSHIT. Are you SURE you go to Dartmouth?

Ugh. You guys are always just showing up places, dead-eyed and cargo-shorted, wanting to “bring the party.” But “bringing the party” always turns out to be watching you all shotgun Natty Light, repeatedly call each other pussies, pretend to Eiffel-Tower each other while sheepishly-yet-aggressively bellowing “no homo” (HILARIOUS), and then passing out in the least fucking convenient place possible in the room no one’s even supposed to go into after having thrown up all over the coats on the bed.

So June Bug, get the fuck away from this friendly gathering. All we want to do is drink bourbon and/or wine, chain smoke for those who are into that, and talk about comedy, video games, how big of assholes most Republicans are, and sharks. Literally, THAT is the shit going down here. No strippers, no SoCo, no easy ‘tang. So just fucking stop aggressively trying to ruin everything and clinging to my tits. The only people I even remotely want to discuss tit business with tonight are the other girls on this porch right now.

No homo.

House Centipedes: Dicks Who Don’t Know How To Use Their Dicks

Oh, I’m sorry, is this a fucking stand off? You were scurrying soooooo fast back to my bathroom just a second ago and now, with a single movement from me, you are so shit scared you just freeze? That seems a little counter-intuitive, don’t you think? You fucking moron? I guess I could understand if you were a slow moving bug or, I don’t know, didn’t have 15 PAIRS OF ABNORMALLY LONG AND SPINDLY FUCKING LEGS and felt like you couldn’t get away from me, but you’re actually the opposite of that. You are literally built to get away from me. If you weren’t such pathetic dumbass, you could be like the superhero of bugs. You can run 1.3 feet per second! Do you even KNOW how fucking fast that is? I do, because I have to watch you do it when you don’t know I’m looking, and it’s downright horrifying. But because I put my hair behind my ear while watching Hoarders: Buried Alive you decided the best option for you is to FREEZE IN PLACE? Well okay, asshole. I can have this staring contest alllllll day…

Except I am TOO FUCKING GROSSED OUT TO EVEN LOOK AT YOUR FUCKING ASSFACE. Did you know that you have an assface? It’s true. As you dipshits evolved, your asses and hind legs evolved to look exactly like your faces and antennas. Do you know what that means? That would be like if we humans evolved so that our faces started slowly resembling our butts. We’d look like this:

THAT IS WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE, ASSHOLES. YOU ARE THE BUTTFACES OF THE INSECT WORLD. EVERYONE IS LAUGHING AT YOU AND YOUR BUTTFACE. YOU HAVE NO ONE TO SIT NEXT TO IN HEALTH CLASS. YOU WILL NEVER MEET ANY BOYS AT THE MALL SO YOU SHOULD JUST STOP GOING THERE FULL OF OPTIMISM AND DETERMINATION. IT’S GOING TO END THE SAME WAY IT ALWAYS DOES - WITH YOU AT ABERCROMBIE AND FITCH INTERNALLY CRYING BECAUSE YOU CAN’T FIT INTO THEIR SIZE SMALLS, WHICH YOU HAVE NO IDEA AT THE TIME IS A COMPLETELY UNREASONABLE SIZE FOR ANY GIRL TO AIM FOR. IT’S OKAY THOUGH BECAUSE YOU KNOW THAT LATER IN YOUR LIFE YOU WILL WRITE A BLOG ABOUT BUGS AND THAT’S GOING TO REALLY BE SOMETHING AND YOUR PARENTS TOTALLY WON’T THINK IT’S THE WEIRDEST THING THEY’VE EVER HEARD OF.

I was reading the Wikipedia article about you guys (because I take the research process for this blog very seriously), and it had this adorable little quote in it:

[The house centipede] may often be seen darting across floors with very great speed, occasionally stopping suddenly and remaining absolutely motionless, presently to resume its rapid movements, often darting directly at inmates of the house, particularly women, evidently with a desire to conceal itself beneath their dresses, and thus creating much consternation.

-C.L. Marlatt, entomologist, 1902

Hmmm, I don’t know, I’m reading this quote and to me it sounds like a pretty fancy and old-timey way of saying YOU GUYS ARE TOTAL DICKS.

Here’s another thing I bet you don’t know, buttfaces: you’re maybe the dumbest and worst sexers of the insect kingdom. You are the anti-bedbug. Think I didn’t know about that? Are you embarrassed? You should be. You see, I read a little bit about your mating practices, which involve the males and females circling around each other touching antennas in some sort of elaborate tease/dance ritual that lasts an unnecessarily long amount of time. Way too much foreplay, guys. Don’t overdo it or it’s going to be time for breakfast, or the news is going to come on and distract you, or you’re going to start thinking about what bug you’re going to write about next or something. Done with the foreplay? Great. So now that it’s time for the actual P in V business, what do you do, male centipedes? What do you do in this moment? This actual intercourse moment now that you’re done with all that dancing and feeling each other up? Come on, now is the time! Tonight is the night! Don’t blow it!

Oh, wait… you EJACULATE ON THE GROUND IN FRONT OF THE FEMALE and then RUN AWAY AS FAST AS YOU CAN (1.3 feet/second)?! What?! Bwahahahaha! I don’t even know what to do with that information! Is that supposed to be a joke? And then Wikipedia (research!) doesn’t elaborate on how the female “uses” the semen to “fertilize herself.” Do you ladies just squat on it and rub around on it a little bit? It’s just so sad and undignified! It’s like a movie scene where a hooker is picking up money that was thrown on the floor for her, only you’re scrambling to pick up SEMEN and you have a BUTTFACE!

This entry is already too long and I haven’t even gotten to the fact that you assholes are the ultimate squatters. You are incapable of living outside of human homes?? Because you can’t “handle” the outdoors or whatever? It’s too cold or windy or some shit for you to exist on your own without human dwellings to take up residence in? It’s like you’re the ultimate divas and think that everything is so hard that you don’t even know how you manage to exist!

Well newsflash, fucktards: MAYBE YOU SHOULDN’T EXIST. Between the fact that you are bugs that can’t live outside AND don’t run away when you’re being hunted AND don’t know how to mate - something EVERY OTHER LIVING THING has figured out by now - I’m thinking you’re just here to show us how many legs a giant fucking mistake has.

Turns out it’s 15 pairs and a buttface.

Fruit Flies Are Some Entitled Motherfuckers

Oh man. It’s hot out, huh, Boston? This shit is desPOTic, amIright? Whew!

You know what really hits the spot on a day like this? When you can feel that teeny, tiny drop of sweat dripping down the small of your back, oh so slowly, almost sensually, taking its time, finding its way along your skin, gaining speed, until it hits the top of your underpants that are crammed so far up your swampy asscrack that you feel like your anatomy is forever changed? And you can’t do anything about it because you’re walking in public, so the second you’re alone in the elevator of your building you almost completely disrobe to adjust everything, which you know is risky but you just don’t give a fuck because you have to look out for you? And sometimes you push it a little too far and your hear the ding of the elevator as it reaches your floor and you still have your skirt up around your waist and you’re all tangled up in an entirely different way because you’re carrying your fucking laptop and your purse and an iced coffee and donuts? You know what really does the trick, the seemingly impossible trick, of making your life feel fresh again?

Fruit salad.

Oh, I see there’s some fruit salad here in the office kitchen! Oh wow, that looks delicious - there’s barely any honeydew in that shit. So much watermelon! Look at all the bright yellow pineapple! Are those… no… no fucking way… are those raspberries? Who is the motherfucking hero who made this fruit salad? Someone get me an obscenely large spoon so I can start the process of trying to take as much of it for myself as I can without looking like a complete asshole! I’m ready to push that limit!

Wait. Wait… what… what is that? No, I’m sorry, what are THOSE? Oh… oh god. How are there so many fruit flies all over my shit?

Fun facts about fruit flies:

• Their science name is drosophila, which sounds like it could be a clothing boutique in the East Village that I can’t afford to shop at
• They are considered a model organism in genetics studies because they are easily cultured in mass numbers, live short lives, and are easy to mutate
• Males have the longest sperm cells of any other organism on Earth; they are deposited into females in the form of tangled coils

…and the number one fun fact about fruit flies is that they are FUCKING ASSHOLES.

Did you little mutant pricks do anything at ALL to contribute to this beautiful fruit salad? No? Oh, then were you the one that baked the muffins? No, that would be absurd. Oh, I know, you must have made this spinach quiche. Oh… okay. Well I know you didn’t stop at Dunkin Donuts on the way in to grab a dozen semi-stale donuts because you don’t know how to cook a goddamn thing, because that was ME, so… you’re just here, reaping the benefits of EVERYONE ELSE’S EFFORTS, as half-assed as they might have been for some of us. You guys are like when the accounting department sends a fucking mole into our data reporting morning meeting, and then that mole goes and gets the ENTIRE accounting department because HEY, THERE’S FOOD IN THE KITCHEN!

How does that feel, I wonder? To never have to work for anything in your life and just take, take, take… to sponge off of other peoples’ resources and then sex and sleep until you fucking die. Does it feel good? Do you occasionally think back to that time when you entertained the idea of getting your bachelors in marketing from Arizona State, but then remembered that you have the bug equivalent of a trust fund, so you shoved your left hand towards some snacks and your right hand down your pants and diddled yourself stupid again thinking about your own face? Congratulations! You guys are the Brody Jenners of the bug world!

Actually, you know what? You can HAVE that fruit. I hope you enjoy it dickheads. Because that fruit is the best fucking thing that’s going to happen to you in your entire life. I mean, to me that shit is an awesome fruit salad - to you it’s like diving into Scrooge McDuck’s money pit. So enjoy it while it lasts. I don’t need it. I’m going to leave here at the end of the day and drink a glass of whiskey and eat a delicious slice of pizza and then have a hilarious conversation with my awesome friends and then eye-fuck the hot guy across the bar. I’m pretty sure YOU have about 7 minutes left to eat as much and as fast as you can, have the kind of unsatisfying sex that happens when you’ve eaten like a fucking pig and everything’s all slow and bloaty and half-hearted, and then die.

The clock is ticking, dipshits. Meeting adjourned.

Bed Bugs: Way Worse Dicks Than You Imagined

So you guys are probably all, “Uh, DUH Jackie. Bed bugs are dicks. Why are we even addressing this?” And yeah, I know. We all know. There’s nothing redeemable about bed bugs that even warrants a debate about whether or not they are dicks. They drink our blood while we’re asleep. And I could write a whole fucking abstract about that - about the COMPLETE FUCKED-UPEDNESS of that whole idea. The GRAVITY of that situation is ABSURD. They FEED ON OUR LIFE SOURCE while we are in our sanctuaries at night, just trying to sleep off a shitty day at our shitty jobs, or sob ourselves to sleep over the fact that our boyfriends fucked our sisters last Spring Break, or have panic attacks while lying next to a complete stranger who only now in the soft hazy-yellow light of dawn has bloody gums and is missing a chunk of his right ear, or lay shattered and broken, surrounded by crumpled Snickers bar wrappers, licking dirty, lint-laced caramel off of our fingers and gazing at the giant “HOW MANY WEIGHT WATCHERS POINTS DO YOU THINK THOSE WERE, MOM?!” that’s been scratched into the wall with a steak knife. What I’m saying is, we need the sanctuary of our beds. We need it during the small dark hours we reserve for such pathetic actions, and bed bugs live in them so they can, if I’m putting this as bluntly as possible, fucking EAT US. “Oh, you horrible tragic fucking disaster of a person,” they say, “did you need all that blood? No? Oh, well if you don’t need all of it I guess I’ll just GORGE MY GLUTTONOUS ASS ON IT THEN.”

So yes. Clearly bed bugs are dicks and we would all be better off if we could murder the shit out of them. But there’s more. Oh, is there more.

Bed bugs, you had me at “traumatic insemination.”

“But what is traumatic insemination?” you ask, putting those two words together slowly in your brain, realizing what they mean separately. And then realizing what they mean together. Clearly you haven’t seen the Isabella Rossellini Green Porno video depicting this - and even if you have, it REALLY sugar coats the whole thing. Let me walk you through the extensive research I’ve done on the traumatic insemination practices of the common bed bug while listening to The Mars Volta in the middle of my local coffee shop. Please. Come on this journey with me.

Male bed bugs have a hypodermic penis (read: sharp). Females have an opening to their reproductive tract, but it’s only used to lay eggs. There is no opening for a bed bug penis on a female. Therefore, in what possibly the hardest and fastest example in nature of a bodily orifice solely being The Out Hole, the male bed bug sneaks up on the female, grabs her and holds her down, repeatedly stabs her in the abdomen with his needle dick, and then ejaculates in her wounds.

Take a minute. It’s fine. I’m taking a minute right now.

…

THE MALE REPEATEDLY PUNCTURES THE FEMALE’S ABDOMEN WITH HIS SWORD PENIS AND THEN EJACULATES IN HER WOUNDS. AND THEN HE JUST LEAVES HER SO HE CAN GO DO IT TO ANOTHER ONE.

I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m sorry. I don’t even know who I am any more. I want to stop but I can’t. There’s still more.

So then the sperm find their way to the ovaries or whatever and they turn into eggs and she lays them and then you have more bed bugs. That is, if the female doesn’t die from her massive abdominal hemorrhaging. If she’s lucky, she’ll get away with little more than some serious scarring, which eventually becomes so thick from repeat matings that she then becomes undesirable and no one will have sex with her. AND I DON’T KNOW HOW TO FEEL ABOUT THAT, THERE ARE SO MANY CONFLICTING FEELINGS ABOUT IT.

Another thing: sexual attraction for bed bugs is based on size, so all that really matters to a bed bug brah rolling through your mattress looking for a fine looking lady to traumatically inseminate is that the receiving bed bug is full of blood. Therefore, it is with alarming frequency that males traumatically bang each other by accident. If that happens, the poor bastard receiving male doesn’t die. No, it just means that when he mates with a female, he inseminates her abdominal wounds with his own semen AND the semen of the dumbass that traumatically inseminated HIM. NOBODY WINS.

I am refraining from posting a photo of this for you because I can barely look at it, but if you want to see it, here.

So there. Bed bugs: real dicks for drinking our blood while we sleep. Male bed bugs: maybe bigger dicks than ants, which we all know that until now were assuredly The Worst. I’m going to have to reevaluate that, though. I’m going to have to reevaluate a lot of things. Like my capacity for empathy, or whether or not I can ever love again.

I’ll leave you with this:

“Hey, Jackie, what did you do tonight?”

“Oh me? You know, went to a coffee shop, revisited the album ‘Deloused in the Comatorium,’ looked at a lot of pictures of bed bugs having what might be the most violent sex in the animal kingdom, and then wrote about traumatic insemination in my bug blog for an hour and a half.”

“Oh yeah, right on, cool. How’s scaring away literally everyone you know going?”

“Great!”

The end. Of so many things.

Fucking Bees, Man

Um, I’m sorry, but what the fuck are you looking at, asshole? What is your fucking problem? Did you want to tell me something? Do I have something on my face? I’m pretty sure I don’t have an open can of Coke for you buzz around incessantly, and I’m not wearing yellow or red or whatever the fuck color you’re supposedly attracted to, and I’m not helplessly standing in the outfield during a baseball game trying to get you to go the fuck away without waving my arms like a complete asshole, and I’m not wearing floral perfume because I’m not a 75 year old lady. So I don’t see what the fuck you could possibly be fixating on, douche bag.

Oh, maybe you’re about to attack me with your entire family because you can’t fight your own battles? Maybe that’s it? I bet it is. Like that time when I was about three years old, and a bunch of you asswipes built a nest underground in our front yard (because hey, it’s not like we OWNED THAT LAND and you were SQUATTING THERE, you sons of bitches). And there I was, playing in the yard like an innocent child does, and I stepped on the entrance to your nest. Because it was on the fucking ground where people walk. And you guys all came swarming around me full force and stung me like 13 times. A three year old girl. I mean I was probably wearing like a watermelon-print swimsuit and fucking heart-shaped sunglasses and was talking about how I wanted to be a fucking vet when I grew up or something completely adorable like that, and you motherfuckers came up and stung the shit out of me, like you were trying to prove to your queen who had the biggest dick or something.  “Hey, Queen, check this out, check out how I’m going to sting this adorable little angel-faced bitch right on her fucking forehead! My bee dick is the biggest! Mate with me next!” Come on, dude. How desperate does someone have to be for a lay? And probably a lousy one, too. I mean, I can’t speak from experience, but I assume that when you’re the only lady-bee around and you screw oh, maybe 500 or so man-bees, you kind of stop caring and just go through the motions.  Super sloppy 502nds, that’s what you are, asshole.

Except you’re not. Because you’re lying dead on the ground, with your entrails attached to the end of your stinger that you used to sting an innocent child. You fucking moron - didn’t know that was going to happen, did you? You probably should have, since you know, that would be an important fact you’d want to keep up in that stupid head of yours. Too bad you missed that lesson in bee school, dickface. You know, that your stupid guts would be ripped out of your body when you tried to sting something. Oh well, too late! The queen isn’t going to fuck you now, huh? No, she is assuredly not. Actually, you know what’s probably going to happen? Ants, the ultimate dicks of the bug world, are going to carry your carcass away into their ant hole and feed you to their queen. Their queen ant is going to eat the shit out of your dead remains and she’s going to love it. The irony is going to be fucking tragic and beautiful and it’s going to feel so unsettling and yet completely appropriate. And then your arch nemesis is going to fuck your queen bee and she’s actually going to put some effort into it, and they’re going to spend the first 30 minutes after they finish their bee sex laughing about how funny you looked when you flew. “What kind of bee flies like that!?” they’ll wonder. “We’re finally rid of Old Sputter-Wings!” they’ll exclaim. And then the queen will eat him, because I feel like that’s what queen bees do, because that’s a real dick move, eating the guy you just banged. I don’t care about the science of it. In my mind, she’s going to eat the shit out of him, just like she has the first 501 man-bees she’s screwed. End of story.

Fuck bees.

We are constantly surrounded by total pricks

Look around you right now. I don’t care where you are, just look. You are looking at bugs. Millions of them. Maybe even billions of them, I don’t know, I’m not a scientist and I don’t have a good concept of numbers, but if I’m right, there are literally BILLIONS of bugs around you right now. I don’t care if you’re in the woods or your grandma’s nursing home or 7-Eleven.

“But I don’t see any bugs,” you protest, taking another bite of your Buffalo Chicken Taquito and washing it down with a swig of Crystal Light Slurpee. “And billions seems like an awful lot…”

Tell that to the microscopic eyelash mites you have living in your eyelash follicles. Go on, try to tell them there aren’t a billion bugs in the room with you right now. They have stadium seating for the event that is YOUR ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE, so I bet they have some thoughts on how many bugs are around you at any given time.

Ugh. They are such dickheads. It’s like they think they own the planet. I don’t care if all the ants in the world together weigh more than all the people in the world. I will stomp the shit out of those ants. Did you know there’s an ant in Africa called the driver ant that would eat an unattended baby if they could? They would EAT an unattended HUMAN BABY. It’s like, a life concern for the people who live in areas with driver ants. They have to babysit their goddamn babies from fucking ANTS so they don’t get EATEN. This is the magnitude of assholery we are dealing with here.

It’s time to call this shit out, to bring it into the open, to remove the shroud of dickishness and look these assholes in the face and tell them they’re assholes. If we can do it to frat boys and Republicans, we can do it to bugs. Who’s with me?