I was sitting on the couch, watching the game and enjoying homecooked tacos, when the bug first landed on the screen, partially obscuring the number of runs Boston had scored thus far. The bug rotated a bit and then sat still.
“Git! Offathere!” I barked to the bug. The bug rotated a bit and then sat still.
“Git! Git!” Gesturing now, as if to a person standing in my way, shoving aside some air a few times. The bug crawled over to the number of outs and then sat still.
“Git! Thafuck! Offathere!” A swig of beer. I glared at the bug. The bug rotated a bit and then sat still.
It never hurts to try to reason with a fellow living thing. “Thing is, bug, I’m watching baseball here. If this were an old Cheers rerun, I’d let you sit there in Sam’s hair all you wanted. But the game’s on. Move out, or you’re done.” The bug rotated a bit, and then skittered over to the network’s logo.
“Ooh. An interesting move by the bug.” I had not expected such cunning. The bug wasn’t even rotating. It just covered up much of the F in FSN. The bug sat still.
Two tacos later, the bug made for the number of outs again. Sooner or later, a man must take a stand. “Oh no you didn’t, bug. You’ve got five seconds.” I grabbed my napkin and bolted toward the set.
I had not lied to the bug: I counted out five alligators with an increasingly menacing tone. Then I sprang, and the bug was no more.
Opening her eyes, Gretchen looked up at me from her zafu and calmly said, “That was entertaining and all, and I love you, but next time, flick the bug away please.” She closed her eyes.