Mosquitos are the bane of my existence. Apparently I emit some sort of mosquito-friendly beacon that designates me one big walking snack. Those bastards are Floridian senior citizens to my early bird buffet, yet they turn their speared, pointy noses up at other humans. I don't know what unique power I hold over them, but I've spent a lifetime trying to lose it. I have failed.
Last year the Sparkles family vacationed for a few days at Mammoth Cave National Park in Kentucky, because we are giant dorks who opt to spend precious vacation time stumbling around dark moldy caves examining the patterns of water droplets on rocks instead of frolicking on the beach like normal people. But one of the things I learned during my time there was that bats eat approximately eighteen frillion mosquitos every day. I felt a light from heaven illuminate my world as I realized that these flying mammals were the answer to all my insect woes.
I knew then that I needed to start my own personal bat colony. In my quest for knowledge I interrogated the park ranger, who clearly had better things to discuss than where Joe Citizen can procure baby bats and whether or not they like to eat carrots. I researched the finer points of building bat homes, only to be met with the devastating news that they gravitate toward caves and other natural accommodations. But I knew deep down that if I could blend the fun, the funky, and the functional, they'd happily relocate to the bat house I was going to build for them in my backyard.
When I was a little kid I went to visit relatives in the Midwest. Several of my cousins were there too, and after we got far too irritating for an old lady to stand, my great-grandmother instructed us to take some old pieces of rope and go outside to hit the bats that were beginning to flutter around. Naturally, we were delighted. She might as well have told a thirteen year-old boy to go watch porn for a couple hours.
We tore out of the house, armed with lengths of very dirty rope, ready to knock the hell out of some bats. We stood in the yard, pretended we were Zorro, and whipped the air. The occasional bat would flit by, but they were much more concerned with keeping the neighborhood bug-free than the dumbass kids spazzing out in the grass beneath them. Eventually, one of my cousins managed to make contact with one of the bats. Considering our lack of skill, the only reasonable explanation for this is that the bat was stoned. The poor thing spiraled to the ground and landed with a thud. We circled around, stood, and looked as it lay there, dazed. I think someone poked it with a stick to see if it was still alive, but it was about that time that I started crying and ran back into the house. I sniffled and snotted and watched my great-grandmother peel potatoes. I heard hooting and hollering from outside, whimpered some more, and caught her sneaking disgusted glances at me. She was probably hoping I had been adopted.
I don't know for sure what happened to that bat, but I think it's safe to say that it never made a family after that day. That potential bat family could have migrated from Wisconsin to Tennessee, made a home in my sassy new bat house, and spent their evenings happily devouring the bugs that torment me. Every time I notice another mosquito bite, I'm going to think about my cousins and how they have totally ruined my outdoorsy life.
Last year the Sparkles family vacationed for a few days at Mammoth Cave National Park in Kentucky, because we are giant dorks who opt to spend precious vacation time stumbling around dark moldy caves examining the patterns of water droplets on rocks instead of frolicking on the beach like normal people. But one of the things I learned during my time there was that bats eat approximately eighteen frillion mosquitos every day. I felt a light from heaven illuminate my world as I realized that these flying mammals were the answer to all my insect woes.
I knew then that I needed to start my own personal bat colony. In my quest for knowledge I interrogated the park ranger, who clearly had better things to discuss than where Joe Citizen can procure baby bats and whether or not they like to eat carrots. I researched the finer points of building bat homes, only to be met with the devastating news that they gravitate toward caves and other natural accommodations. But I knew deep down that if I could blend the fun, the funky, and the functional, they'd happily relocate to the bat house I was going to build for them in my backyard.
When I was a little kid I went to visit relatives in the Midwest. Several of my cousins were there too, and after we got far too irritating for an old lady to stand, my great-grandmother instructed us to take some old pieces of rope and go outside to hit the bats that were beginning to flutter around. Naturally, we were delighted. She might as well have told a thirteen year-old boy to go watch porn for a couple hours.
We tore out of the house, armed with lengths of very dirty rope, ready to knock the hell out of some bats. We stood in the yard, pretended we were Zorro, and whipped the air. The occasional bat would flit by, but they were much more concerned with keeping the neighborhood bug-free than the dumbass kids spazzing out in the grass beneath them. Eventually, one of my cousins managed to make contact with one of the bats. Considering our lack of skill, the only reasonable explanation for this is that the bat was stoned. The poor thing spiraled to the ground and landed with a thud. We circled around, stood, and looked as it lay there, dazed. I think someone poked it with a stick to see if it was still alive, but it was about that time that I started crying and ran back into the house. I sniffled and snotted and watched my great-grandmother peel potatoes. I heard hooting and hollering from outside, whimpered some more, and caught her sneaking disgusted glances at me. She was probably hoping I had been adopted.
I don't know for sure what happened to that bat, but I think it's safe to say that it never made a family after that day. That potential bat family could have migrated from Wisconsin to Tennessee, made a home in my sassy new bat house, and spent their evenings happily devouring the bugs that torment me. Every time I notice another mosquito bite, I'm going to think about my cousins and how they have totally ruined my outdoorsy life.
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