The lawn in my backyard is infested with vermin.
Moles, to be precise. Small, pointy-nosed rodents with claws that dig more efficiently -- for their size -- than a host of yellow backhoes or excavators.
Hundreds of underground trails criss-cross my yard, many intersecting at swollen mounds of sod, others branching off to the nearby woods. It’s like a damn mole city, complete with main roads, side streets and dead-ends. Next thing you know, I’m gonna find stoplights and strip malls down there.
Of course, I’m not happy about the situation. I hate these little critters with a passion. Once, my wife and I were all set to close on a house when I stumbled upon a handful of mole trails in the backyard. Needless to say, we didn’t buy the house.
When I first discovered evidence of the dirty little creatures last fall -- a few modest trails leading in from the woods -- I immediately set out to exterminate them. I purchased a half-dozen, cylinder-shaped smoke bombs guaranteed to “cause a slow, agonizing death due to toxic smoke inhalation.”
I dug some holes in the tunnel system, lit a few smoke bombs and quickly deposited them in the ground. After capping the holes with a small mound of dirt, I stood back to listen for their little coughs.
Next thing I know, smoke is seeping slowly out of the ground, turning my backyard into a scene from some eerie horror movie. I half-expected a couple of corpses to rise out of the earth.
To stop the seepage, I began stomping on the ground like some native performing a raindance ritual. This lasted maybe thirty seconds, until I started to feel lightheaded and suffered a psychedelic hallucination involving a human-sized gerbil wheel.
The following morning I surveyed my handiwork, only to discover that the tunnels had more than doubled overnight. Son of a gopher!
My next act of vengeance involved purchasing a fifty-dollar electronic device designed to transmit underground sound waves. According to the box, the device was guaranteed to “send moles screaming out of your yard with a groundhog-sized headache,” never to return again.
I planted the device in the middle of the tunnel system, then flipped it on.
I didn’t hear a sound, but then the box claimed the sound waves were imperceptible to the human ear. Still, I listened for tiny mole screams.
None were evident.
Figuring it might take a little while, I decided to go inside for a bite to eat. Sitting in the kitchen, I began to hear dogs barking close by. I peaked out the window and discovered that my backyard was filled with canines.
Apparently, my sound-wave device had triggered “the call of the wild”.
Even worse, the next day I found that the mole trails had more than doubled once again. My entire backyard had now been claimed as their territory.
I began to have visions of “Caddyshack” in my head. You know, the movie where gophers attack a golf course and Carl, the assistant greenskeeper (Bill Murray), takes a large hose, jams it into a tunnel, turns it on and thirty-foot geysers spring out of gopher holes all over the golf course.
Before I could go any further with my plans, an early snow blanketed the ground. I was forced to wait until Spring to resume the battle -- man versus mole.
Now, Spring is here.
I have trained all winter for this day, both mentally and physically. The yard has thawed, and my arch-enemy awaits. Sound the trumpets, unfurl the flags.
And, if I don’t return, please tell my wife and kids I love them.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Monday, April 14, 2003
Monday, April 07, 2003
Teens today are having too much fun
Apparently I was born 25-years too late.
I say this because of some startling information I recently stumbled upon concerning the social lives of today’s teenagers.
No, I’m not talking about hanging out at the local mall or sipping lattes at Starbucks, though I’m sure a large portion of the teen population spends more time engaged in such pursuits than -- dare I say it? -- studying.
Rather, I’m talking about a much more shocking development involving the hormone-plagued crowd, something so dangerous and controversial it may cause grown men to cry (from envy).
I’m talking about (deep breath), the BOY-GIRL SLEEPOVER.
For those parents out there who have yet to deal with zits, cell phones and speeding tickets, a boy-girl sleepover involves placing an equal number of boy teens and girl teens in one’s basement, serving enough caffeinated pop and sugary treats to power a nuclear submarine, mixing in a handful of sleeping bags, then closing the door and going to bed.
“Ha, ha,” you say, “you’ve obviously gone off the deep end! Have you been sniffing glue again?”
After blowing my nose, my response to you is this: “I’ve got it on the best authority -- the parents of teens -- that boy-girl sleepovers are all the rage in our suburban communities. An epidemic of Britney Spears-ian proportions.”
“Well, even if that is true,” you say, “I’m sure nothing really happens.”
“Helloooooo? It’s Colonel Mustard calling with your clue. And after you take that call, please come see me because I’ve got some high-flying dot-com stock I’d like to sell you.”
“Really?” you say. “How many shares?”
Come on, people, holding a boy-girl sleepover with a group of teens is like handing a flamethrower to a pyromaniac: Someone is bound to get burned.
Heck, you might as well put out condoms as party favors. They’ll come in handy during the game of naked Twister that’s certain to erupt after mom and dad retire for the evening.
I mean, duhhhhh! What possible good can come of a boy-girl sleepover? Improved communication between the teenage sexes? Yeah, they’ll all be speaking French before the night’s over. Encouraging new friendships? Yeah, they’ll be getting so friendly, half the sleeping bags will go unused.
The situation has the makings of a new reality t.v. show. Call it, “The Mating Rituals of Teenage America.” Or better yet, “How to Bed the Host Family’s Daughter.”
The true reality here is that asking teenage boys to be good under such circumstances is like asking the Detroit Tigers to hit a baseball. It’s damn near impossible.
Now some of you may be thinking -- why the cynical rant when his oldest is still a few years from reaching his terrible teens?
Well, maybe I’m just a wee bit envious.
Back when I was a teen, the closest I ever came to a boy-girl sleepover was when I had a couple buddies spend the night and one of them pulled out a bootleg copy of Playboy. Unfortunately, the party went straight downhill after that. Ie had to kick one of the guys out for suggesting we play Twister, and another excused himself after realizing he had forgotten his inhaler. That left two of us, and we spent the remainder of the night at opposite ends of the room.
Now, some 25-years later, I learn it’s acceptable to invite the opposite teenage sex to such affairs.
Which leads me to just one thought: Naked Twister anyone?
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
I say this because of some startling information I recently stumbled upon concerning the social lives of today’s teenagers.
No, I’m not talking about hanging out at the local mall or sipping lattes at Starbucks, though I’m sure a large portion of the teen population spends more time engaged in such pursuits than -- dare I say it? -- studying.
Rather, I’m talking about a much more shocking development involving the hormone-plagued crowd, something so dangerous and controversial it may cause grown men to cry (from envy).
I’m talking about (deep breath), the BOY-GIRL SLEEPOVER.
For those parents out there who have yet to deal with zits, cell phones and speeding tickets, a boy-girl sleepover involves placing an equal number of boy teens and girl teens in one’s basement, serving enough caffeinated pop and sugary treats to power a nuclear submarine, mixing in a handful of sleeping bags, then closing the door and going to bed.
“Ha, ha,” you say, “you’ve obviously gone off the deep end! Have you been sniffing glue again?”
After blowing my nose, my response to you is this: “I’ve got it on the best authority -- the parents of teens -- that boy-girl sleepovers are all the rage in our suburban communities. An epidemic of Britney Spears-ian proportions.”
“Well, even if that is true,” you say, “I’m sure nothing really happens.”
“Helloooooo? It’s Colonel Mustard calling with your clue. And after you take that call, please come see me because I’ve got some high-flying dot-com stock I’d like to sell you.”
“Really?” you say. “How many shares?”
Come on, people, holding a boy-girl sleepover with a group of teens is like handing a flamethrower to a pyromaniac: Someone is bound to get burned.
Heck, you might as well put out condoms as party favors. They’ll come in handy during the game of naked Twister that’s certain to erupt after mom and dad retire for the evening.
I mean, duhhhhh! What possible good can come of a boy-girl sleepover? Improved communication between the teenage sexes? Yeah, they’ll all be speaking French before the night’s over. Encouraging new friendships? Yeah, they’ll be getting so friendly, half the sleeping bags will go unused.
The situation has the makings of a new reality t.v. show. Call it, “The Mating Rituals of Teenage America.” Or better yet, “How to Bed the Host Family’s Daughter.”
The true reality here is that asking teenage boys to be good under such circumstances is like asking the Detroit Tigers to hit a baseball. It’s damn near impossible.
Now some of you may be thinking -- why the cynical rant when his oldest is still a few years from reaching his terrible teens?
Well, maybe I’m just a wee bit envious.
Back when I was a teen, the closest I ever came to a boy-girl sleepover was when I had a couple buddies spend the night and one of them pulled out a bootleg copy of Playboy. Unfortunately, the party went straight downhill after that. Ie had to kick one of the guys out for suggesting we play Twister, and another excused himself after realizing he had forgotten his inhaler. That left two of us, and we spent the remainder of the night at opposite ends of the room.
Now, some 25-years later, I learn it’s acceptable to invite the opposite teenage sex to such affairs.
Which leads me to just one thought: Naked Twister anyone?
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
