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In a world filled with famine, war and incurable diseases, I think it’s important that we address the moth situation in my house.
The moth, as you may know, is an insect closely related to the butterfly, only uglier and much more vindictive. Until recently, I thought they existed solely to provide the overriding scent in my grandma’s perfume, Eau de Mothballs. Little did I know the flappy bastards have actually forged a real, and rather successful, career out of turning silk blouses into slices of Swiss cheese.
That became abundantly clear when I recently pulled on my favorite sweater dress — and felt a cool breeze on my butt cheeks.
Frantic, I grabbed sweater dress after sweater dress — yes, I have an unhealthy slip-on knits habit — out of my closet, only to discover moths had enjoyed quite a feast in there. As one who prides herself on maintaining a healthy perspective and caring about the things that really matter, such as famine, war and incurable diseases, I reacted in the level-headed manner you would expect:
“OMIGOD, MY CLOTHES, MY CLOTHES! RUINED! MY. LIFE. IS. RUINED!”
Followed by a sob-fest on top of my pile of now-well-ventilated dresses.
Having bought our townhouse brand spankin’ new a few years ago, Mr. Candy and I never expected this kind of household tragedy to strike. As I said, I thought moths were an OPP (Old People’s Problem), much like the ailment that causes pants to settle just below their armpits. But alas, moths have officially waged war on Mr. Candy and me for no good reason. They keep mumbling something about “looking for weapons of mass destruction.” However, I can tell them right now their intelligence is clearly flawed. The only weapon we harbor is a 22-lb. cat who could smother them with a single swat of his fluffy paw if he wanted — but, unfortunately, is too preoccupied with licking yesterday’s remnants of Meow Mix from his beard.
This leaves the unenviable task of fighting back to Mr. Candy and me. We are as adept in killing the elusive Terrorist Moths as Al Gore is in performing stand-up comedy. I, being seven-months-pregnant and possessing the balance of a weeble-wobble, am lucky if I manage to stand for three seconds without falling over, let alone effectively target a moth taunting me from the ceiling. “Mmmmm! That cable-knit Banana Republic sweater sure was yummy,” the Terrorist Moth laughs as I trip over the rug trying to hit it.
But I can’t waste too much time splayed out on the floor because I have even bigger problems that demand my attention — namely, the loss of my husband’s sanity. Between you and me, I fear a few of the more demented moths have taken up residence in his brain and chowed down on what little rationality he possessed. The man — I kid you not — is OBSESSED with these moths. Nary a moment goes by when he is not screaming at them and wildly punching the walls in a futile attempt to win the war. He even has nightmares about the Terrorist Moths. I know this because I am often awakened to the sound of Mr. Candy hitting his pillow and yelling, “DIE, MOTHS, DIE!” As you can imagine, this amuses the moths to no end; they just pull up some chairs and nibble on their wool coat sandwiches whilst enjoying the entertainment Mr. Candy-turned-Krazee-Eyez Moth Killa provides for them.
We have sprayed. We have swatted. We have patched up the holes Mr. Candy punched in the walls. We have even looked into more effective ways of eliminating the moths, but turns out it’s not so easy to get your hands on a machine gun these days. Damn the liberal communist regime!
Although the enemy’s troops are slowly thinning out, the war is far from over. If you learn anything from our tragic battle, it’s that you should always make insects go through the security line before entering your house. Also, if Al Gore ever puts on a show at the Laugh Factory, avoid it at all costs.