In came the mom who saw it and then wept.
Out came the boy who caught it in a jar.
And the bigsy wigsy spider was taken away far.
I hate spiders.
They’re so creepy with all their spindly, hairy legs and round fat bodies chock full of nasty-colored goo that squirts all over when you squish them. The soft yet crunchy noise of smashing them is worse than nails on a chalkboard.
They say planet Earth would be completely taken over by bugs without spiders so I know they’re necessary for the food chain thing to work right, but they’re supposed to do their dirty deed on the down low, out of sight, far far away from humans, and especially away from my house and person.
I doubt this albino beast was trying to make her way into my kitchen to spin a web above my stove that said “SOME COOK!” so we could go to the state fair and win a blue ribbon in the pie category.
I’m pretty sure her sly plan was to casually perch on a dish towel and cause me a brain aneurysm when I reached to wipe my hands. Then she and her billions of babies could take over my kitchen and make pies themselves.
*Note: “psychotic dog” explanation coming in Thursday’s edition of “Write On!”