The Fly Killer

So the other night Marshall and I were retiring to bed (am I old enough to "retire" to bed? I guess so) when sitting next to me, perched on my alarm clock, was a fly. I think it was mocking me. That squirrel from the park has been talking smack, I just know it.

So I told Marshall to kill the fly. I take no prisoners.

Marshall said, "Just shoo it out of the room."

"No," I replied, "that will not do. It might come back. It's mocking me, it needs to be taught a lesson. Kill it. Be my knight in orange sleep shorts."

He laughed at me. But he did grab a t-shirt and roll it up.

Me: Are you going to snap it's butt like you're in a locker room or are you going to kill it?

Marshall: We don't have a fly swatter, this is the next best thing.

The fly then buzzed around me and I hid under the covers.

Marshall: Why are you hiding? It's a fly, not a bee. (I'm allergic to bees.)

Me: Don't you know that over the course of a lifetime a person ingests at least SEVEN BUGS IN THEIR SLEEP? I will not let that happen to me! I will not eat this fly!

**SNAP**

Marshall: Fly's dead.

Me: Oh, you are so sexy when you kill dangerous ninja flies.

Marshall rolled his eyes at me.

Me: This would make a great blog post. Don't let me forget it.

And I didn't. And now you know the story of my husband the fly killer.