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June 8, 2015 / MissSteele

Summer of the Cicada

I’m sure by now everyone is sick of cicadas, right? I know I am.

Ever since they emerged from the pits that spawned them a few weeks ago, I have been eagerly anticipating their departure. I can’t wait for them to crawl back into their respective holes and disappear for several years, just like that weird second-cousin who tries to make it as a street performer and only comes home when someone’s death demands it.

What is up with that, by the way? What kind of creature drills its way to the surface to skulk about only once every 13-17 years? Hellish creatures only comparable to the minions of Satan, that’s what. Not to mention that all they do once they arrive is strip naked, throw very loud, screaming orgy parties and leave a trail of disgusting aftermath in their wake.

That is some straight-up alien shit right there.

That is some straight-up alien shit right there.

Perhaps I’m being a little harsh on the cicadas, but that’s only because I hate them. There is no way to escape them, and God forbid you have to be outside for an extended period of time. If you must venture outside for longer than five minutes, please wear body armor. You will need it. Trust me, fashion a protective suit out of old magazines and duct tape or you will live to regret it.

I learned this the hard way on Saturday whenever I tried to have a yard sale. “Tried” is the key word here because it was not successful in the least. We can attribute this to the fact I looked insane to all passersby because I was chasing after cicadas armed with only a tennis racket and a mouth like a sailor. To be fair, the cicadas started it. I was sitting there, minding my own business, when I began getting pelted by them. And when I say pelted, I am not exaggerating. They were flying into me at full speed, and lemme tell ya….them sons-a-bitches are humongous. It isn’t like when a bunch of little flies decide to land on you. Oh no. Cicadas decide to target you and it feels like some fucker is trying to bounce gravel off your arm fat. I thought for sure a window was going to break from the sheer force of each ricochet.

The big fuckers with wings just kept coming, and this presented a problem for me because I am absolutely terrified of bugs that make loud buzzing sounds. We all know how I feel about bees. Cicadas are even worse because they are the size of my big toe and they have the red eyes of the Devil.

El Diablo.

El Diablo.

Also, they are apparently attracted to the smell of sunscreen. I don’t believe there is an official study about this or anything, but when the Banana Boat came out, the cicadas decided I looked like a giant blob of deliciousness. Either that, or the smell was so offensive to them that they were trying to murder me.

So that was certainly a dilemma. I could be bombarded with enormous, winged beasts the size of dog turds…or I could roast my pasty ass until the sun turned me into a raw heap of hamburger meat. I decided to brave the bugs, but the journey was not an easy one, my friends. Especially not after one of the cicadas FLEW INTO MY FUCKING HAIR. You want to know how I knew it flew into my hair? Hint: it wasn’t because I felt it try to nest in my bun. IT WAS BECAUSE IT STARTED SCREAMING AT ME.

Yes. That’s right. I was blissfully unaware the demon-spawn was in my hair until I apparently angered it and it let out the most glass-shattering screech I have ever heard. Let me tell you- you have not known fear until you hear RRRREEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH coming from your hair at a decibel that only train whistle can produce. I immediately hopped out of my chair, frantically beat my palms against my scalp and screamed for mercy. RRRREEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

I’m fairly certain my neighbor thought I was being assaulted because I screamed, “GET THE FUCK OFF ME, WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!” Upon seeing me thrashing my head around and flailing my arms like I was doing a rain dance, he declined to provide me with assistance. Meanwhile, I was running in circles and squealing because the cicada dub step was terrorizing my ear drums.

You know how loud they are, you can hear them from yards away. Imagine one being right behind your ear. Now imagine you have upset it. I would have preferred an air horn at that point. They sound like maracas amped up on methamphetamine at a Skrillex concert. Finally, I was able to free it from my hair and decided that just could absolutely not happen again. So I doused myself with bug spray, hoping it would deter them from coming near me.

It actually worked…for a while. They circled above me like vultures, casting their ominous shadows and screeching at me. I became so desperate I seriously contemplated befriending a bird and making a deal for protection, like one might do in prison.

I got your back, sugar.

I got your back, sugar.

Once I began this way of thinking, I decided I had lost my damn mind. I don’t know whether it was the heat, or the constant threat of being ambushed by cicadas (or as I like to call them now, meth-maracas), but I resolved to abandon my yard sale and return indoors.

I was almost home-free, but as I was carrying one of the last boxes inside, one of the cicadas, in an act of vengeance, tried to FLY INTO MY EAR. OH MY GOD. CAN YOU IMAGINE? IT TRIED TO FLY INTO MY EAR. I promptly hurled the box of junk into the air and started flailing around so hard it looked like I was overcome with the Spirit. I’m sure people were driving by and thinking there is nothing I want that bad that I am willing to pull into that lady’s driveway.

So yeah. I am impatiently waiting for their grand exit. I look forward to the day when I can mow the grass without feeling like I’m participating in an episode of Fear Factor. I can’t wait to ride the lawnmower near a tree and not have to worry that 15 cicadas will fall into my hair, or that they will leap from the ground onto my sandals because that totally happened the other day and I flung my shoe off so hard it landed in the neighbors fenced-in yard. I had to go to their front door and ask for it back, like a young child might do for a baseball. Except I was a grown woman wearing only one shoe, and the only explanation I could give them was “cicada”.

It’s really only a matter of time before I drive the mower under a tree and a gaggle of them fall into my shirt. And when that happens. everybody needs to watch out because that shirt is coming off in a hurry and so is the bra. I don’t even care. I will drive that lawnmower topless without even thinking twice about it because I am not letting them throw an orgy party in my shirt. Although, it may be a bit awkward when I go to the neighbor’s to get my bra back from his yard.



Leave a Comment
  1. Beth Farrar / Jun 10 2015 2:53 am

    The last time those hell spawn came to terrorize Paducah, in 7th grade, I was innocently swimming in a pool when one got tangled in my long, wet, curly hair. The next day, I cut about 10″ off my hair and kept it that way for over 10 years. Needless to say, the mere thought of those things makes me have a small panic attack. They have fortunately left Lexington alone this year and I can’t be more glad.

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