The bluebottles. Sure they have me only demented entirely.
The fat, zing-pinging crazy bluearse little bastards. The daft, dirty, harebrained, erratic infuriating fuckers.
In unemployment, I spend so much time at home now, most of it with my head spinning like a madcap meerkat as I stand there all squinty and seething and bitter with a rolled up Buy and Sell, swatting and windmilling at them like Basil Fawlty rave dancing after six ecstasy tablets.
There's no fewer than four of the fuckers careering around the place as I type. Crashing into the mirror, ting-tinging their curranty bodies off the lightbulbs, banging off each other in such a fucking bastard hurry to get to where they don't even know where they're going because as soon as they get there, they're up and off again for the sheer fuckery of it all, the horrible fuckwits. The stupid, pointless noisy shower of farts with wings that they are.
The buzzing and the droning. The buzzing and the droning. It's like listening to a mini version of the Battle of Britain.
And when you manage to get one of the little fuckers to sit still for a minute (how their mothers cut their hair I'll never know) and squish him satisfyingly with much aplomb and no little pent up aggression, they go splat all over the wall and then you have to wipe up the goo. They don't go quietly, and they don't go quietly either if you get me.What a risible, detestable waste-of-time of a species.
So today, I was hoovering, and in a fit of volcanic pique I started chasing one of the irritant little shites round the living room brandishing the vacuum cleaner for all the world like William Wallace with a broadsword. I was sweating like a racehorse after ten minutes' comical lunging and stabbing at the air and tippy-toe Elmer Fudd sneaking, but oh! I tell you, the immense feeling of satisfaction and achievement as I snared me one of the varmints and he struggled to escape the pull of the roaring Miele 1500 and was sucked in with just a gentle thwack of his rigid blue body on the tube. And then his screaming, protesting whine trailing off like a baddy getting chucked over a cliff in a Bond movie, as he travelled on down to meet his maker in the guts of the machine. Oh joy.
I hate bluebottles. Even when I don't have a window open, the loathesome, madcap, worse-than-any-little-bastard-off-Supernanny lunatic motherfuckers still manage to get in. They get into the window seal from outside and sit there until I do open the window, and fly right in to commence their nonsensical, deranged skittering and flittering about the place. I've never known anything alive expend so much energy doing absolutely zero. Much ado about nothing. Sound and fury, signifying nothing.
And how in the name of all that's logical can they manage to find a crack the width of a hair through which to get in, and then when you open the window wide in the hope they'll fly out of their own accord, they'll happily spend hours hurling themselves endlessly against the closed pane beside it?
Idiotic, pinball, berserk, careering Bluebottle bastards. I'll commit a murder before this day is done.
Hrrrrmph.
Coming of age
2 hours ago
22 moos and woofs:
You need the t-shirt the man standing in line ahead of me this afternoon had on. It read, "I don't kill innocent animals. Only the ones that look guilty."
I agree. Those bloated wastes of space fall in the same category as mosquitoes. Why? What are the good for unless you need plague and pestilence?
Sorry. I'm still working on feeling normal again after the head cold from hell...whatever normal is. I am, however, glad to see you back amongst us. I think you owe us something...didn't Susan gift you with an award of some kind? I was kinda looking forward to your answers to the 10 questions that went with it. :)
You would hate Australia. We are blowfly Mecca, and despite their name, blowflies aren't very exciting. And in Oz bluebottles are toxic jellyfish that sting thousands of swimmers every year. Thankfully they are not (as) fatal like the other ones. The cure is vinegar, or the urine of a pregnant woman. Maybe you would like Australia?
"The bluebottles made me do it your honour".
But beats workin', innit?
Fly paper.
That's how you caught me, after all.
Swoon.
Hope, I missed that 'award' from Susan alright so I went rummaging through her blog and found the blasted thing. I think I'll have to give it a swerve, it's even more girly than the last one she made me do. I think Susan wants to dress me up in frilly frocks and stuff. But I'd rather the teeshirt. Commiserations on the headcold, glad it's better.
TMATP: Blowflies? Jesus if you were going to go to the trouble of calling them something different, why not go the whole hog and just call them Fuckyflies. Actually that's what I'm going to call them from now on. Yeah. Fuckyflies.
NaRoc: That made me laugh. I can just picture myself in front of a judge telling him the bluebottles in my head made me do it, and he says incredulously, how do you have bluebottles in your head, and I say back "But those bastards can get in anywhere your honour!"
Susan: For once I have to disagree. Myself and Radge worked together for the first time in three years there on Monday, and truly, there's nothing can compare.
Radge: Was it not a trail of M&Ms up the stairs and into my room? Saw that on ET. Sexy.
Fuckyflies! Yoink.
Horrible little bastards. I concur.
Bit of a shame - I hear Bluebottles have nothing but kind words to say about you.
Kitty: It's catchy innit? Fuckyflies.
Matthew: Ha! I can imagine them down the pub zapping about the place and in the snatches of conversation they can manage as they pass each other fleetingly, remarking about how I'm great craic altogether chasing them about the living room with my vacuum hose held aloft. And I know that's a ridiculous double entendre for anyone with a mind to exploit it but I've typed it now so what the hell.
You're a new face around here as well, so welcome!
I stun them with a flick of a dishcloth and then put them in a web, sit back and enjoy the show. Sometimes it's wise to pull the wings off first, in case the infuriating little bastard manages to get clear of the web.
I tried to save one of those little fuckin bastards yesterday. He had reached that near death stage of walking rather than flying. Too easy to kill so I caressed him with a paper and gently lifted him to the open window. He fell 3 floors to his death. Oh well.
@Grow Up: Stunning with a dishcloth? That's what all the gurlzzz say about you, ya big roide ya.
I really like your torture method. A suitably torturous end for a thoroughly torturous insect.
@Leeroy: I love it when they're all dopey like that. We used to pick on the ould drunk lad down the road in much the same way when were children. I can categorically state that I never caressed him or threw him out a window though, mostly because he preferred to do these things himself if memory serves.
For you too, however, I applaud the end you gave to this fuckyfly. I can hear his last thoughts as he plummets to earth, thinking the fly equivalent of oh bollocks me parachute's buggered.
You had me at fuckery. I'm easy to please.
Ah that pubster beat me to it. We just put up with the flies and have developed the Australian Wave to cope. And popping beached bluebottles on the sand is a lovely pasttime!
Hello dsmcaron, or should I say fáilte. Yes I like fuckery as well, it's like the grown up, more street version of jiggerypokery.
Baino, I'm glad you Aussies have your coping mechanisms and back episodes of Hymen Wye to fall back on, but up here, I feel throwing myself at the walls the bastard things make me so angry!! Grrrr!
Flies need to be herded out of a room. You start at the farthest corner of a room away from a fully open window. Then slowly start walking towards the window waving both arms up and down slowly as though you're making a snow angel. The flies will try to move away from the big scary arm thing and towards the window and hopefully right out of it.
By the way, border collies chase flies because they're actually tying to herd them.
As a fellow citizen of the country that Man at the Pub resides in, I can only concur that the Australian Blow Fly is by far the most shit-stinkingly irritating insect on this planet.
More than once I've had a tennis game (usually when I'm lunging for a shot) rudely interrupted by one making a mad dash for my inner nasal cavity which is a real bugger when it comes to trying to remember if I was 40-15 up, or 30-30....
Holemaster: Fascinating stuff, genuinely. I'm going to try that, although I doubt your average fuckyfly with his totally arbitrary flight radar will have any concept of where the exit is.
As for dogs herding flies, I might write a blog about that in your honour it's so damned hilarious.
Kath: A fuckyfly up your NOSE? It's your own fault, the bastards probably saw the picture on your blog of you with the pens dangling from your nostrils and figured you were fair game. Sorry now but I'm with the fuckyflies on this one.
Terence, the only reason I can shove those pens up my nose is because the blow flies paved the way.... Sympathy please!
Then what's the point of having nuclear weapons if you can't use them on these things?
Um, quick question.
When you finish murdering the flies, will you be answering Susan's questions [re your award]?
Just curious. But you already know that about me. :)
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