The FKS Guide To Murdering Common Household Insects

It’s a relatively quiet day in your house. The TV’s on. The wife is reading. The baby has something in her mouth to keep her from bitching. Things are good all around. And then, your wife jumps up and shrieks:

“(Your name, which in my case is Drew)!!!!!”

You know exactly what this means. Women don’t jump up and scream randomly, unless they happen to be my ex-girlfriend. No, this is something your fatherly instincts have long readied you for. There is a bug flying around in your house. Time to protect your family and deal with the beast. Severely.

Immediately, you spring to your feet. A bug? In your house? That little motherfucking, cocksucking, exoskeleton-having piece of shit! How could it be? Is there a crack in the window? Is the front door ajar? Did it come down the chimney? Is he alone? Did he bring his “friends” with him? And why are you writing about this in the second person? Fuck him. He must die. Time to take action.

This is serious shit. For most men, this is the only time in your life you’ll get to kill a living thing without remorse or pity. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to run over a cat “by accident” one day. But for now, this will have to do. You tell your wife to leave the room and get away from the intruder. But you also make sure she’s still close by enough to watch you kill the bug, so she can bear witness to you taking command. Later, you will have sex because of this.

You spot the bug. It’s an ugly one, all right. It looks like a member of the cicada family. You know this because cicadas swarmed the DC area two years ago, and it was icky and gross. The first thing you must do in this scenario is choose your weapon. Your arsenal:

-A Shoe. Shoes are all right, but the curvature of the sole sometimes gives you less surface area for killing than you might think. Also, the shoe may be dirty on the bottom. And the only thing worse than having to kill a bug is having your wife bitch about you getting a footprint on the wall. If you go with a shoe, I suggest a flip flop for superior control.

-The Remote. Not an option. Too valuable. Why would you even consider this, you stupid asshole?

-A Newspaper. A reliable option in your artillery. It’s pliable, light to carry, and you never read the opinion section because George Will’s columns are trite, boring, and gay. If you use a newspaper, you must roll it up and handle it like a lead pipe and/or half a numchuk.

-A Magazine. Magazines are my personal favorite instrument of death. They roll up with minimal creasing (saddle stitch ones in particular), and the glossy print makes for easy cleaning after eradication. Ah, but which magazine do you choose?

Sports Illustrated and Entertainment Weekly? Out of the question. Too important.

Lucky? In a perfect world, you’d use it. But your wife loves it. Why? Who knows? For fuck’s sake, it’s a magazine of nothing but ads, ladies. Figure it out.

Parenting? You’re getting closer. Nothing’s more expendable than a magazine filled with worthless, conflicting parenting advice from editors who live in Manhattan and leave their kid 18 hours a day with the Puerto Rican nanny.

Crate and Barrel catalog? Ding! Ding! Ding! Time to kill!

You roll up your magazine and assume the proper killing stance: legs akimbo, bent in an Army Ranger half-crouch, with both arms coiled at chest level. The bug flies out you. You spastically move out of the way so that the bug doesn’t land on you. Because if a bug touches you, it’ll totally gross you out. The bug has now gone behind the couch. Or has it? You knock the couch. Nothing. You peer between the couch and the wall. Gone! Where did the bastard go?

“(Your name, which in my case is Drew)!!! There it is!!!”

Your wife’s pathetic shrieks have you spinning around like a whirling dervish. The bug has magically teleported across the room and is now infiltrating your cherished lampshade! You have to hand it to the clever little fucker. An impressive move. But sure to be his last! For now he has cornered himself! Soon he will taste your bitter wrath!

You wait for the bug to move to the wall. Like a sucker, he does! You move quickly to strike, when your wife shouts out…

“Don’t smush it against the wall!”

Well, what the fuck the else are you supposed to do, woman? That’s what the wall is there for, you crazy harpy! You ignore your wife and move to strike, whacking away like a man possessed and commanding the insect to “Die! Die! Die!” as you smack it. The importance of screaming out “Die!” while you kill something cannot be understated. It lets your victim know just how determined you are.

The insect falls to the floor behind the chair. You check to see if it’s dead. Alas, it’s disappeared! Criminy! What part of “Die!” did this varmint not understand?

But then, you spot the bug once more, crawling out from under the chair. It cannot fly now, its flying apparatus disabled by your punishing blows. A weaker man might show mercy on his enemy in this moment. He might consider sparing this poor bastard.

But not you. You are a man. A man with a large penis and a thirst for vengeance. And you don’t forget the anguish this miserable creature has put you and your family through. He even woke up the baby. Fucking prick.

You raise your shoe, casting an ominous shadow over the perpetrator. And then, you allow yourself a slight grin before mustering the best one-liner you can think of in this moment of chaos:

“Adios, muthaphuckka!”

You really need to work on your one-liners.