My best friend also happens to be my next-door neighbor. This is called a convenience, except when she calls me late at night bawling her eyes out.
“What’s going on?” I asked, unsure why she’s crying so hard. Of course my mind goes negative: her husband left her, someone close died, she hurt herself, etc.
“Th-There’s a t-t-tarantula in m-my kitchen!” she said in between sobs.
I didn’t know if I personally could handle the situation. I grew up watching Arachnophobia, knowing exactly why anything with eight legs is the spawn of Satan. I wasn’t exactly excited about going into her house to kill the mother of all arachnids. A part of me wished she lived across town again so I could make an excuse about not having a ride or something.
Nonetheless, I put on my big boy boots (the black ones with the steel toes in case that mother fucker went after my feet) and went hunting for weapons. We keep everything under the kitchen sink, so I grabbed a powerful bug spray that said it killed spiders and a bubbling bleach disinfectant. Why bleach?
I also took a broom in case her broom happened to be in the kitchen.
I had to enter through the backdoor of her home because the “front door” goes through her kitchen and I wasn’t ready to face the 8-legged terror.
My friend opened the door with tears streaming down her cheeks. “I didn’t know what else to do. It’s been sitting there, staring at me for half an hour!”
I took a deep breath and headed to the kitchen. I stopped in my tracks while my mind wrapped around the monstrosity that sat only five feet away from me.
With both bottles in each of my hands, I started double-teaming it with as much spray as possible. At first, it didn’t move. I thought maybe it was dead while I covered it in bubbling bleach that I know probably felt like napalm to its delicate hair-covered skin.
Then it moved.
My friend and I started screaming our heads off simultaneously. She thought the occasion deserved a video recording. Unfortunately, the file’s format doesn’t work well with my PC and I can’t seem to upload it here. Just imagine a big white girl screaming along with a big gay man.
“It’s crawling up the cabinets!”
“I can see that,” I said to her. I refocused on the tarantula. “Why won’t you die!? Leave us alone!”
The disgusting arachnid tried to disappear behind the trashcan, but it thankfully crawled back into view. I took control by grabbing my broom and giving her the sprays. It was do or die time.
“Keep spraying while I go in.”
As she sprayed, I raised my broom like Poseiden with a trident and I brought the full force of it’s bristled power down upon the beast. I struck it several times, crushing it against the faux wood of her counters. I scraped it out from under the lip of the counter door and I began beating it several times until all 8 of its tiny legs flew off.
I know I went overkill, but spiders and I have an unspoken arrangement: stay outside and I won’t kill you. Otherwise, your ass is mine.
Nonetheless, I felt bad for the little guy, so I swept up its remains and poured them outside with a short prayer. “Go burn in Hell you sick son of a bitch.”
My friend took me out to dinner and a movie the next night as repayment. She said I earned my ‘man badge’. I guess my penis means nothing unless it’s going inside a snatch.