She May be Controlled by Spiders, but she’s Terrified of Bugs

For someone who I am almost 100% sure is controlled by tiny arachnids that use her skull as a cockpit, my wife sure is scared of bugs.  Well, maybe scared is a bit of an understatement.  Bat-Shit terrified and borderline obssessed is probably closer to the truth.

I suppose it is probably the spiders’ way of trying to throw me off of their scent, but if you ask me they are going a little over the top.  I’ll be sitting at my desk, quietly masturbating, when all of the sudden I hear my wife cry out in a toe-curling voice.  You’d think I’d have learned by now, but to this day I still assume every time that she has either A) suffered a compound fracture or B) inadvertently stumbled upon my collection of razorwire - the scream is that dramatic.  But instead I race into the room, penis still flapping, only to find that yet again it is C) There is a baby cricket in the house, and there she is, her breathing off, her face all splotchy, shifting her weight from foot to foot like a 6 year old in desperate need of a toilet.

Often she sends the little guys running frantically away with her shrill, subhuman screams, and they run for cover under the nearest sofa.  That’s when my fun really begins.  Because unlike an average human being, Mrs. Donk won’t just leave it there.  No, she becomes completely absorbed with locating the cowering insect.  Here’s a perfect example from over the weekend, when a tiny spider had crawled under and end table that had a spare DVD player underneath it.  Mrs. Donk supervised me on a meticulous search and destroy mission that included the following steps:

1. Slowly, ever so slowly, moving the end table.

2. Picking up the DVD player.

3. Shaking it.

4. Vacuuming the edges of the carpet with the little “corner” attachment.

5. Vacuuming the surrounding carpet.

I was slightly stunned when she stopped short of replacing the carpet altogether.  Needless to say, the spider was never found (he’d probably escaped to the safety of my wife’s innards).

And though Mrs. Donk is almost eye-rollingly sensitive when it comes to the pain and suffering of other animals, when it comes to our friends the buggilies, she is one bloodthirsty S.O.B.  Not even the cutest of little baby grasshoppers earns her sympathy. I remember one time when she commanded me to go outside on the back patio and tackle one of the biggest wolf spiders I’d ever seen (granted, the thing probably needed to be offed).  As my arms locked with its spindly, hairy legs and we began to wrestle like Captain Kirk and an alien in some Star Trek episode, Mrs. Donk, safely behind the glass sliding door, yelled out encouragement in a gruff, drill sargeant’s voice.

“Cmon, kill it!  Kill the fucker.  Use its legs as toothpicks!!”

When I’d finally vanquished my foe with a crushing torsoe toss followed by an elbow to the thorax, my wife and I made mad passionate love until deep into the night, her thirst for violence awakening in her an insatiable animal instinct.  Fuck, if only that last part were true.

 I’m sure if there really is such a thing as Karma, Mrs. Donk’s bug-holocaust has all but doomed her in her next life.  Oh wait, I’M the one that killed them all.  Christ my wife is smart.