Alright, centipede. We've got beef. So much beef, in fact, that I'm posting on my blog, which you will never even see.
You are a HOUSE centipede. If you are going to live in my house, you need to earn your keep and start eating my HOUSE spiders and HOUSE camel crickets. Okay? Don't get me wrong, I like spiders well enough. When I can, I'll catch them- or any other critter- and put them outside. But when there is a giant fucking wolf spider sitting in the middle of my hallway, staring me down like he owns the goddamn place, and sizing me up and wondering whether I'd make a decent meal for him and his 14,000 babies, we have a problem. When that camel cricket the size of Ryan Seacrest's ego hanging out on my wall decides to jump onto my face in the middle of the night, we have a problem. I'm sure Mr. Cricket has a wife and four kids, but the second he disregards my need for personal space (I am American, afterall) he ceases to have a name and a face. If they just want to chill out in the basement, that's cool, but if you can avoid midnight spider bites and prickly legs, why wouldn't you? Exactly.
This centipede is the most lazy piece of shit I have ever met. I'm getting ready for work this morning (because some of us work for a living), when this guy comes scuttling across my carpet as though he's nowhere to go and nothing to do. WRONG. In fact, buddy, you should be eating my spiders. And seriously? I don't think I'm asking that much. It's not like you don't need to do your job in order to LIVE. You stop eating, centipede, you DIE. That's what happens. I know. I've seen the impoverished children commercials.
You clearly cannot function in society and don't even want to take care of yourself. So the next time I see you and you don't have arachnid entrails clutched in one of your ten million arms, I will not show you mercy. I will not give you another chance. The world has no room for centipedes like you. I will kill you.
