Spiderwebs

spiderweb |ˈspīdərweb|--

noun

A web made by a spider.

So this post is really two-fold: I hate spiders (who doesn't?) and I hate the goddamn webs they weave. Especially the ones they weave in Toluca Lake.

According to the ever reliable Wikipedia: "Spiders are found worldwide on every continent except for Antarctica, and have become established in nearly every habitat with the exception of air and sea colonization." This, my friends, is BULLSH*T. Shutup, Wikipedia. First, let's tackle the "sea" issue. Those little monsters have definitely found a way to conquer water (see: Diving Bell Spider), and while the Diving Bell Spider does not inhabit the sea, per say, it is well on its way. Secondly, I am no scientist, but I am pretty sure the whole point of creating a web is so they can catch their prey in the AIR. Have you ever seen a spider make a web on the ground? No. They weave their webs above the ground which technically means they have conquered the air. In case you have any doubts concerning the validity of the aforementioned conjecture, you are an idiot, and please click here --> THIS IS TERRIFYING. Ergo, spiders are scary and will eventually take over the world, one neighborhood at a time, starting with Toluca Lake.

Picture this:

It's dusk on a warm summer day in Toluca Lake, CA. The vibrantly colored trees and mountains of daytime now muted, enveloped in the sublime haze of impending darkness. A jogger sets out on her merry way -- equipped with an iPod and pepper spray (hey, you can never be too careful ladies) -- to relieve the stresses of a long day. She eases into a comfortable pace, her soft footsteps and disciplined breathing coalescing into the harmonious sounds of a cardiovascular symphony. She is happy. She is relaxed.

As she rounds the corner of mile 2 of her jog, she approaches a row of beautiful young pear trees lining the side of the leaf-stained sidewalk. She bows her head slightly to pass under the lower branches and foliage and to her horror, her face is instantly engulfed in an invisible web.

She breaks her pace abruptly and begins flailing her arms and wiping her face to thwart the invisible assailant. Passersby stop to witness the epileptic episode taking place across the street, watching incredulously as she frantically shakes her head, flips over her hair and scrubs violently. Onlookers, unable to identify what is vexing her, ascribe this seemingly random meltdown to sheer insanity. Little do they know, her attacker is stealthy, cloaked in the cover of dusk, each night weaving a silvery web and waiting patiently for prey to unsuspectingly jog by. Now, thoroughly exasperated, she spends the remainder of the run in a state of acute paranoia, swatting imaginary spiders all over her body.

A peaceful run, sabotaged by an airborne arachnid that rebuilds the same web in the same trees every night. Unable to escape the webs on her jogs, and tired of whiplash and failed attempts to relieve stress, the girl stops running outside. The girl stops running entirely...Andturnsintoafatlardwhoneverleavesthecouchgetsdiabetesandheartdiseaseanddies.

Case closed. Spiders win.

Someone get me some Raid.

Butterflies

butterfly |ˈbətərˌflī|-- noun ( pl. -flies)

An insect with two pairs of large wings that are covered with tiny scales, usually brightly colored, and typically held erect when at rest. Butterflies fly by day, have clubbed or dilated antennae, and usually feed on nectar.

I hate every member of the Lepidoptera order. Big, small, colorful; they elicit the same response as a cockroach -- disgust.

Have you ever had 300 of these [seemingly] harmless vermin land on you simultaneously? One or two seem pretty innocuous but when they all start landing on you and not on any of the other 20 people in the walk through habitat, it's hard not to start indiscriminately swatting and smashing every set of colorful little wings that's landing all over your face and hair in a fit of hysteria. All I have to say to the habitat curator who had the pleasure of escorting me out after the butterfly bloodbath is:

"I don't care if you warned me prior to entering the exhibit that touching butterflies' wings with our oily fingers kills them. Those glorified roaches should know that touching my face with their dusty feet is what will kill them."

If you don't want to be blacklisted for life from a butterfly habitat, then I suggest you never go to the Saint Louis Butterfly Museum while wearing a custom blend of Tom Ford perfume. Personally, I'd rather be covered in South American fire ants than a horde of rainforest butterflies.