Survival of the baddest

I was plopped on the sofa, enjoying my morning Isosource cocktail while watching an episode of The Bob Newhart Show and speculating on Carol's true gender when I spotted something large and furry fluttering in the corner of my eye.

At first I thought a bat was hovering over my kitchen table. After putting down my can of Isosource and moving cautiously toward the kitchen, I realized it wasn't a bat at all. It was the biggest fly I had ever laid my eyes upon.

The fly was drawn to my kitchen light, meandering in an erratic pattern just above my head. I figured it either had a blood alcohol level of .05 or it was texting while buzzing.

I didn't know or care how the fly had gotten into my apartment; all I knew was that I wanted it out. If only I had splurged on that fly swatter G-tube attachment that I saw the other day while leafing through Down the Hatch: G-Tubers Quarterly.

Negotiating with the beast was out of the question.

What if the fly landed on my chest while I slept and spotted my trach with one of its 500 eyes? It might get curious about what was beyond the dark hole and peek inside.

The fly was too big to fit in my trach, but like a lot of living beings, it probably had a misguided perception of the size of its thighs. The fly could attempt to enter my trach, and then get stuck halfway to my throat.

The humane act would be to stun the fly and then toss it out the window. There it would lie quietly in the weeds below my balcony for a while and then, after regaining its strength, it would limp off to a more benign environment —say, the Dumpster near my bedroom window.

As I crept up on the fly, I reached for a newspaper to roll up and take a whack at it, but then tossed it aside. The paper happened to be the L.A. Times and God knows that the Times no longer has the heft to pass for a defensive weapon against a fly.

Then I opened a binder that I use for storing receipts from my medical appointments and tried to capture the fly by slamming the covers shut.

Blame the Isosource for making me inebriated with aggression. Reader, I slapped the binder shut and flattened the lil' menace.

When I opened the binder, a few of the fly's legs were still twitching, so I slapped the binder again, only harder.

I know what you're thinking: Dude, you're such a hypocrite.

Here I am, waging the fight of my life against cancer and yet I'm willing to glibly snuff another creature's life. What gives me that right? That fly might have had a family or a position of respect in the insect community. Maybe it was a direct descendant of Vincent Price or even Jeff Goldblum.

I don't care. Go on, report me to PETA so they can thunder down on me just like they did with President Obama. I have enough problems without also having to worry about my home being overrun with flies. I killed the bugger and given another chance I would kill again.

Cancer, let that being a warning to you. You won't get a smidgen of mercy from me, either.