Shpydah!
A spider landed on my shoulder this morning. A great gruesome Shelob tarantuloid terrorclump, prodding and full of schemes and dastardly encreepment. Legs like wicked celery stalks, body akin to a water balloon of malice. I could hear its ichorous mandibulae chittering clicky-wet. A panic filled me, a panic one generally reserves for massacres or George Hamilton films.
Adrenalin surged in my inner pipes, infusing me with the strength of three average men, or six toddlers and a mature Basset Hound, minimum. A mighty backhand, the sort you’d expect from Serena Williams, pow! Clocked the scrambling interloper but good and then some. His manifold appendages scrambled for purchase but my powerful John Henry strike gave him no purchase and off he went through the aether like propelled halitosis.
I didn’t kill him, mind you; I have no arachnicide in my heart. Live and let live, as what’s his name said. Just don’t live on my shoulder with a glistening black eye-cluster fixated on my jugular like evil grapes.
The spider was so uncommonly vast that I could hear him quite clearly when he hit the ground. Whenever you can actually hear a spider land, there’s a quick moment of sheer terror, because any spider large enough to be heard upon descent is not to be trifled with. Most of them touch down with a *pah* sound, a small dusty collision. But this one hit with the chlumph of a hundred dampened Cheerios in a paper bag. A crater formed in the linoleum.
I haven’t been home since.
During my time away from home I’ve I written a poem about a small spider, so as to balance the universe.
The itsy bitsy spider, yeah
well, he went on down the spout
and he looked inside
he went to the web where his sister lived
and then he
he caught a fruit fly for his brother
and then he
He crawled on up the spout! Yeah!
and the rain came down
you know the rain it floods the spout
spout flows to the drain
try to crawl
try to climb
climb on up to the other side
yeah
Spiders in the storm
spiders in the storm
he climbed into the spout
and water washed him out
waiting for the sun
waiting for the sun
to dry up all the rain
Climb to the end
arachnid friend,
the end
climb to the end
and get washed out
again…
For more creative grumblings of Jason Henninger, check out the
I Speak Fluent Giraffe Index page.
