A Scourge of Fruit Flies

13 12 2006

Electric Mosquito Paddle

I am a God of Extermination with my electric mosquito paddle. This is a badminton racket-shaped swatter strung not with catgut but twin layers of wire that hum with menacing discharge at the press of a button on the handle, creating between them a crackling field (I exaggerate) that—and herein is genius—makes it impossible to miss. Because if you swat an insect, even a tiny one, it won’t make it through the field. In essence, you can miss, and still a blue spark (I exaggerate not) and a sharp snap will inform you of the target’s spiraling demise. Swish! Swish! No longer are surfaces needed! A swipe through the air, the merest contact, and death to pests. Fruit flies, had they brains great enough to know fear, would fear me.

Here it retails for around five Yankee dollars. I am told these are available in Chinese-dense areas of California. What are you waiting for? Run, ye mortal fools, and get one!





For Starters

28 02 2006

The Oxford-Hachette Dictionary, this translator’s tool of choice, has this to say:

rentier, –ère / 1A~tje, E1 / nom masculin et féminin person of independent means

Not I. A little joke, then, on this struggling artist and serial renter. Posts in this category, or thusly tagged, will examine the rooms my life and travels have dragged me through, places I’ve lived or merely survived in. Adulthood is owning a home. In the meantime, there’s that two-month security deposit.

“…And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed–

…He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,
Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door,
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. ”

Build thee more stately mansions, indeed.