Of Flies and Men

I read an article recently about how men (not mankind so as to include women, but men) love war. They love the thrill of pitting their manliness against each other, just to see who’s the toughest. Each wants a turn to prove that in a real life and death situation, he would pull out on top… or at least alive.

My first thought was that the whole idea was bologna. I’ve never been a guy who likes the much physical “pitting.” Take wrestling, for example; who wants to wrap their arms around a greasy sweaty guy in spandex – I mean really?! I’d rather pin a bald goat. And as for the grunting manliness of the all American football game? Let’s throw a ball at someone and then pile as many people as we can on top of them – while wearing a helmet, shoulder pads… and yes, spandex. And this is a national pastime?

So when it comes to the real deal, with guns, utility belts, and assault weapons, I’m not big on the idea. (At least they wear real pants, but still…).

I realize that part of my issue may have something to do with the fact that I’ve always been something of a wimp. I was the fastest runner in my class – the only thing in grade-school that earned me bragging rights, but only a useful skill when faced with school bullies. I outran the best of them.

But today I realized that there might still be a hint of that manly bloodthirst in me when I was suddenly faced with an obstacle of nature that was bent on my misery. And not only one such creature, but many, which came at me in random intervals throughout the day.

When they come, I go on a sort of rampage, a complete man vs. beast episode.

And what is the object of my man-fury? That freak of nature; that billion-eyed, filth-seeking, speed-demon, parasitic creature, the housefly. I can be sitting in compete comfort at my work desk, listening to soft music, and calmly pressing on with the task at hand, but when I hear that little drone behind my head, I grab the swatter and become Chuck Norris meets the Hulk. All my man-rampage instincts fly into hyperdrive and I become an instrument of terror – well… to the fly, anyway.

My first approach is stealth, sneaking up with my weapon drawn for the ambush. When that fails, I go for strategy, switching off all the lights in the room and opening the door of the well-lit bathroom. When my little friend finds his way in, I slam the door and go into Jackie Chan mode, crashing and banging around until one of us dies. Gratefully, so far it’s always been the fly.

Okay, so I’m no Old-Spice guy. But when it comes to buzzers, I get my fair share of blood, sweat, and guts. Ah! Just saw another one… Mwa, ha, haaaaa!!!!