Crickets

   People who like crickets irritate almost as much as the little chirping bastards themselves.  “Oh, don’t they sound lovely and romantic?” I have heard before, typically at outdoor functions peopled by somewhat overweight singles desperate for a mate.

Not to me. It is like listening to twenty one year old males at a bar bragging about being a sniper or an Army Ranger, all trying to outdo each other with the most consistent noise as is possible, to try to attract a female crotch for the night. Christ, if every guy you heard talking about being in the Special Forces really had been, there wouldn’t be a bloody army, just a shitload of paratroopers, all jumping out of C-130’s with knives clenched in their taught jaws.  Who the hell cooks the food? Who does the paperwork? To fire a friggin round you have to fill out something in triplicate, and submit it to a number of interested subcommittees.   I write a lot of military history articles, and the last time I heard one of these crickets, I did get my back up. I started asking about muzzle velocities, and preferred ammunition, to which he had no answer, because he didn’t know a sniper from a snipe.

Now, I happen to really like snipes. Like most birds, they are fascinating to me, the little skittering movements and the large doe-like eyes just catch me off guard every time I see one. Unlike crickets.

I typically like to type my notes while reclining in a warm bath, which is a necessity in Phoenix in July, as you can not get cold water unless it is from the refrigerator, and that is just to many steps to hump water up. I will suffer, thank you.  I have re-occurring dreams of being stabbed to death, much like  Marat, though it is too hot to have a towel on my head, whilst I am writing away.  If there was a revolution, I suppose I would write about it too. Prior to being stabbed.

So, I am happily typing away about the benefits of porcelain tile, when out of the vent above the bath comes down a chirping cricket. He did miss the bath, however, landing on all points near the commode. Leaping out of the bath, without tumbling my laptop into it thank the heavens, I managed to corner the little son of a bitch and squash him before he could even make one chirp.

Some people dislike ants, because they think they are mindless. I like ants, not because of their communistic socialism, but because they are quiet.  This is also why I like Archimedes the owl, my fish, and the snakes. I revel in quietude. Crickets are idiotic little breeders who have to constantly shout “Here I Am!” just to be noticed by the feminine crickets, who are probably more interested in the roach who just moved in down the street, or that cute Katydid outside working out all the time.

If I want noise, I will put on “Screaming for Vengeance” by Judas Priest or anything by Laibach.  That monotone “chirp chirp chirp” eats away at my sanity, and it is not unusual to see me cock my head sharply and race up the stairs to confront a male cricket who has decided to start crowing from the second floor. Hop all you want, you little bastard, I’m coming to get you.