As I sit down to write this blog, I know only one thing: If you have never encountered a Spricket, you should consider yourself lucky. Also, I hate you.
This is not one of those moments where I tell you not EVER to Google the word “spricket” and you run off and immediately Google the word “spricket” and then come back and yell at me for putting the thought in your head even though I specifically said DO NOT EVER GOOGLE THE WORD SPRICKET!
Don’t do it. I’ve seen the beasts and even I won’t Google them. Be satisfied (and not scarred for life) with the following description: Demon Spider/Cricket hybrid from HELL!!!!!!!!!
Also known as: cave crickets
Also known as: total assholes
For anyone afraid of spiders, these mother fuckers are basically their worst nightmare. They are spiders that jump. And they seem to crave human flesh. I can’t confirm if that last part is true, but after this weekend, I think it’s safe to say the spricket apocalypse has begun. Either that, or my husband has a death wish.
This is the story of why my husband is lucky he is still breathing, and not buried in the back yard with sprickets eating his remains.
The scene: Saturday night. Catching up on the DVR while partaking in a few adult drinks.
The players: Me. Husband. Lurking danger.
It was late in the evening, so while I wasn’t exactly shithoused, I wouldn’t say I was exactly in control of all of my facets. Like most people, at my first party where the alcohol was flowing, I was quickly told never to “break the seal”- for once you did, you’d be feeling the urge to pee CONSTANTLY. Add two vaginal childbirths to that equation, and on drinky-drink nights, I’m pissing like a damn racehorse. I’m lucky I haven’t wet the friggin’ couch!
Anyway, so there I am, nearly launching myself off of the toilet with a pee stream that would make all other pee streams jealous when I see it. A fucking SPRICKET. Just sittin’ there on my bathroom floor like he owns the place. My bathroom is small, y’all. Like- I could prop my feet against the wall if I really needed leverage to get a big turd out. It’s THAT small. This mofo was not only in my home, but had now invaded my personal bubble. THIS IS NOT OKAY.
Normally, this would scare the pee back into me and I’d have flown out of that bathroom faster than monkeys in a freight train. No, that makes no sense, but you get my point. I’d have been OUT! I couldn’t stop the stream! I JUST COULDN’T! I was trapped!
At this point, I’m frozen in fear. Other than my pee. That was still going. I’m afraid to move because if I move, it will move, and I do not want it to move! There was only one thing I could think to do- I yelled for my beloved husband. He kills those evil fuckers for me all the time. This would be no different. I mean, I’d be on the toilet and it might be kind of awkward to squash a bug while there’s pee draining from me- but yeah, he could totally save the day! I was okay with a little bit of shame- so I called out to him, and he’s all “What?” and I say “THERE’S A SPRICKET IN HERE, COME AND KILL IT!” and he’s like “Why don’t you?” and I’m completely flustered at this point and I yell “I’M PEEING! I HAVE NOTHING TO KILL IT WITH! YOU COME KILL IT RIGHT NOW!” and he’s laughing and making his way to the outside of the bathroom door claiming he isn’t going to come in and help me when that rotten little shitdick (the spricket, not the husband) JUMPS IN MY LAP.
IT JUMPED IN MY FUCKING LAP! WHILE I WAS PEEING. MY NAKED LAP. IT FUCKING JUMPED IN IT!
Does my husband swoop in and slay the foul beast, thereby saving me and my pee stream? No. He laughs hysterically while I scream and flail and pretty much die 4 times over trying to get that thing OFF of me. Pee, shame, and anger. I was full of all of those things. Poor bladder.
NOW we can call the husband a shitdick. Frickin’ husband. What the hell are they good for if they can’t even manage to smash a disgusting bug for us??
I spent the rest of the night shaken, paranoid, pissed off AND on, and wanting to stab my dear husband in the taint with a spork for not coming to my rescue. I’ve been trying to come up with some kind of moral to this story since then so that I could walk away from this situation with something OTHER than a lovely new phobia of peeing, but I’m hard pressed to find a bright spot, so other than the giggles I hope you got from this harrowing tale, I will leave you with this:
Don’t break the damn seal! And for the love of all that is holy, don’t Google “spricket”!!
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