The Great Moth War

Whether you’re up against an insect invasion, a zombie apocalypse or the sudden appearance of a dwarf black hole in your kitchen sink, I’m always happy to share my rich experience in dealing with the insanity of daily life with my fellow paranoids, so here you go.

In the last couple of months, we have been fighting a guerilla force of small moths in our kitchen. They sit around on the walls and in cabinets, acting all innocent and harmless while their maggots dump their excrement in your food. Naturally, we wanted to get rid of them.
The hard part was not finding their nests. Search through your food storage for traces. The maggots leave behind a silky, almost invisible substance. Check the flour. If you can pull strings of flour out of the bag, you have guests. Examine the rice. If you keep your rice in a sealed plastic can, don’t feel too safe, because they still find a way in. They like cereal. They seem to ignore dried pasta somehow. Unopened stuff is fine, too. But if you’re easily grossed out, you can just throw everything away. You won’t help starving kids in Africa by keeping it. After your cabinets are empty, look out for cocooned maggots in the corners. These maggots, when you squash, them, they pop audibly.

Still, after throwing away a month’s worth of food, you will still find moths. Our moths annexed the box we keep hamster food in. I found one in the computer room. You have reached the hard part now, painstakingly exterminating all pockets of moth resistance.

The first step to victory is: Know your enemy.

Picture unrelated.

I checked wikipedia to find out about their weaknesses but I learned there's a bazillion different moth species and every single one of them seems to exist for one single reason: to shit all over your food while pointing their little fingers and laughing at you.

I had to identify the species first by examining one of them. Moths do not collect and bury their dead, so there was plenty of material to research on. After several hours of scientific internet studies (most of which consisted of Mothman movie reviews and web forums about conspiracy theories) I had a name to put to the face.

The European grain moth, also known as Nemapogon granella. Say it out loud.

This winged vigilante, this infernal creature of the night is the Ghengis Khan of the arthropod world. Besides having a name right out of a lovecraftian nightmare, it has also conquered most of Europe and somehow Australia. For various reasons (which I made up) it remains unseen in Iceland (too cold / full of fairies), Slovenia (no food to take a dump on) and - wait for it... France.
I’d like to think the reason for avoiding France is: It would be too easy to invade France. Even a moth has its goddamn code of honor.

Bienvenue, notres nouveaux insect overlords.

Alright, I was joking. It’s a popular cliché, but I know some French people, and they do not roll this way. They probably annihilated the grain moth years ago and didn’t bother to tell anyone because it’s nobody else’s business. I’m serious about the fairies, though.

But I digress. I had to think of a strategy. The first battle plan, “Operation Scorched Earth” or “setting the kitchen on fire” was not met with much enthusiasm from my girlfriend. Instead she proposed small, quick, surgical advances into occupied territory and generally just killing the fuckers on sight. Still, this approach turned out to be quite messy.

These six-legged lap dogs of Satan, you see, are tough as nails and very fragile at the same time. Try to squash them on an easy to clean surface like floor tiles and they will just shrug it off and fly away while you clutch your sprained knuckles and sob. On the other hand, when they sit on a white wall, you only have to do so much as look at them hard enough and they will explode in a cloud of moth intestines and malicious glee, leaving a behind a brown smear that will be there as a reminder of your cruelty for fucking ever.

Men, prepare for tactical explosion -
and don't forget to crap on the rice crispies.

I had to learn to catch them in flight. I spend weeks training how to predict their crazy flight patterns, wait for the right moment, and strike. I had no Mr. Miyagi to help me. I got pretty good at it, though. And then one day I came home from work, prepared for another epic night of slaying moths from dusk ‘til dawn, and I couldn’t find any. They were gone.

By the time I'm writing this, they’re still gone. We join Iceland, Slovenia and France on the list of moth-free areas in Europe.
Either they have left for good or they have abandoned their hit-and-run guerilla tactics, building up their army for a full scale war.

Escort Mission

Last weekend, I decided to play some good old Bioshock again. I hadn’t played it for 2 years, completely forgotten about the story, but remembered it as being fun. Perfect replay value for a weekend when you’ve got nothing else to do.
Unfortunately I also forgot the part shortly before the end where you have to escort a Little Sister on your way to the final boss. Even in a great game like this, escort missions can’t be anything but annoying. So, here is a meticulous account of my descent into madness with the second last level of Bioshock.

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Brigid Tenenbaum is out of her mind. After I’ve wasted hours helping her and her precious creepy little kids, she has no moral qualms against making fun of me. This “pheromone” I had to collect and spray all over me smells like badger shit. I might as well have dipped my head into a toilet bowl on the way. She is probably laughing her ass off right now. Tenenbaum told me to flush out one of the Little Sisters by smashing my wrench on one of those ventlike metal thingies, and I almost blew my eardrums. Very funny, Brigid. Finally, to add insult to injury, she sent me the dumbest kid she could possibly find.
I’ll get her for that.

Around the corner a dead body is lying on a metal grate.
I already know what’s coming now. The little girl stabs the corpse with her supersized syringe and drains the shit out of it as if there was no tomorrow. I played over ten hours of this game to help these kids getting a normal life and now I find out I have to deal with the Rapture equivalent of a pre-school meth addict.
“Hey can you stop th-”
“Look daddy, he’s dancing!”
“God, that’s gross. I think I.. - JESUS CHRIST, DID YOU JUST DRINK THAT SHIT?”
“Unzip him, Mr. Bubbles!”
“Unzip... WHAT? Could you just for one moment try NOT to scare the living hell out of me?”
“Three too many! Three too many!”
“Listen kid, you’re supposed to open some doors for me and in return, I have your ass covered. Nobody told me I’d have to help a four-year-old support her drug habit to beat this game.”
“Hop hop, Mr. B., no time to waste!”
“You don’t even - hey, are you even listening to me, kid? I personally don’t care if the splicers get you, but if they do, I’ll catch hell from your mommy, and I don’t want that.”
No reaction.
Suddenly all hell breaks loose. Splicers come screaming and running from both directions. I open fire, the stagnant air is thick with bullets. I don’t even think about the kid. This is my ass on the line. I blast away until the metallic clicking of my empty submachine gun is the only sound resonating from the corridor walls. I lift my cramped finger off the trigger. The smoke clears.
Everybody’s dead, Dave.

The Little Sister seems to be dead, too, but her body has disappeared into thin air.
As expected, Tenenbaum chews me out.
“What are you doing? You were supposed to protect her, not kill her!”
“Look honey, this is what happens when you don’t teach a kid priorities. I told her a doz-”
“Quiet! Go back and call another Little Sister. But this time you better take care of her.”
This seems to be more than a minor annoyance to old Brigid, so I swallow the “would you kindly shut up” pun and back down for the moment.
Creepy kids and their nagging mother. Somehow Bioshock is turning into a supermarket checkout lane simulator right now.

I walk back to the beginning of the level to do the old wrench-on-metal-thingy routine.
CLUNG. CLUNG. CLUNG. My ears feel like they’re bleeding. Maybe it’s the atmospheric pressure down here. No wait, it’s the noise. I have to grab the Big Daddy helmet with both hands to keep it from vibrating. Finally a new Little Sister climbs out of the vent and takes off immediately. I follow her, thoroughly scanning the environment.
Mrs. T. still nags me about her damn kids. She has the nerve to act as if she was the protective mother of all mothers. I tell her to shut up, that it’s all her fault and that Rapture is no place to raise a child. Not even a junkie child. Then I switch off the radio until she’s calmed down some.

While we stroll along the corridors, I decide it’s time for a little Daddy-to-Sister talk.
“Kid, you don’t really think I’m your Big Daddy, do you? I mean, I smell like one and I wear this huge helmet, but even a drugged nutcase like you must notice that I have a healthy bone structure. And I understand the basic concept of verbal communication.”
“All your faces are melted.”
“Yeah I know. I’ve seen those posters - this is your brain on drugs and all this stuff - but even then you can’t be that dumb. Also, there is no point in taking care of my appearance if everybody and their mother mistakes me for a fat mindless ogre with an underwater hazmat suit."
“Scabby on my knee.”
“Sure, whatever you say. Hey, aren’t you the same kid that just disappeared in front of me? Because you sure as hell all look the same. I’m starting to think you’re playing some sick game wi-”
The little brat discovers the same already drained corpse we passed before, leaps at it like it was a free Hello Kitty lunchbox and rams her ADAM-needle into the poor dead freak.
I stare at the scene in disbelief. Not again.
“Are you kidding me? He’s dry as a martini. Besides, we don’t have any time for this shit!”
“Don't be a slowpoke Mr. B., angels don't like slowpokes.”
“You will meet some real angels if we DON’T GET MOVING!”
Too late. I can already hear them around the corner. But this time, I’ll be prepared.
I quickly hack two of the automatic turret guns for fire support, like the magnificient bastard I am. As a veteran of Company of Heroes I should be able to lure the splicers into a deadly machine gun crossfire. By now I’m so low on ammo, I need every help I can get, and I can’t see shit with this helmet on. I switch the radio back on for helpful advice, but all i get is a complaining Tenenbaum. Plus, the smell of those Big Daddy pheromones is ungodly.

Wait a second.
I shouldn’t be able to... this game is getting way too immersive.
With a girly scream I let go of the mouse and look around the room, spooked.
Frantically I dig through piles of paper on my desk in hope of finding some leftover food that could be responsible for this sudden shift into the surreal. I even check the usual suspects, my socks.
They're fine.
Just as I am finally ready to accept the fact that I’m gradually, or sense by sense, fading over into a video game world like Jeff Bridges in Tron (only with goddamn splicers), my eyes fix on a coffee mug standing behind the fucking printer.
I pick it up, sniff it and faint for a few seconds.
Instant cappuccino with whipped cream, estimated time of death: 3 weeks ago. What a relief.

But back to the game, there’s a job to do. I’m surprised to see the Little Sister still alive, although I must have been away for at least a minute. She seems to do better without me, which sheds a bad light on my babysitting skills. All the while Tenenbaum is screaming at me for being a useless peace of shit, while the hacked turret guns are joyfully tearing the attacking splicers to shreds. We’re all one happy fucking family and it’s Christmas day.
Little Miss Sunshine dances around in a hailstorm of bullets and shouts “Kill it, Mr. Bubbles! Kill it!”

This kid is hardcore. I name her Nicole, after a girl I once knew as a kid who kicked everyone’s ass on the schoolyard. After I’ve finished off the last splicer and Nicole has finished her ADAM picnic, we continue our little walk in the park.

Again, I try to start a conversation. She completely ignores my questions, incoherently stammering shit about angels, lollipops and toffees.
And then, as I feel my ears still ringing from all that gun fire and wrench-hammering, it dawns on me.
I have just discovered the terrible secret of the Little Sisters.
They’re all deaf as a post.

Damn you, Brigid Tenenbaum. Damn you.

Warning: If your daughter draws like this, she might possibly be a junkie.

Dear Internet

Dear Internet,

I'm a bit late.

It's the year 2011, and I'm starting a blog.

It feels like one of those nights you keep getting calls from friends, asking when you will get your ass in gear and come to that awesome party that is going on somewhere.
By the time you arrive it's five in the morning, everyone is wasted out of their minds and all the girls have left ages ago. But you drove all the way across town to get there, so you might as well grab something to drink and make the best of it.
Not that I ever had one of those nights, but I can imagine how it feels.

So yes, I'm late to this party.
But I’m an old-school kind of guy, I still listen to Dinosaur Jr., too, so I think that's okay.