I Hate Snakes

Five years ago, while watching TV in my basement, I felt something fall on me after opening my glasses case. I looked down at my chest and saw a tiny ringneck snake crawling on my sweatshirt. I did the only sensible thing—shriek like the Wicked Witch of the West, scurry out of the room, close the door and wait for my dad to come home. There were two flaws:

1. Closing the door would not prevent him from crawling underneath if he wanted to.
2. If he hid in a crevice and my dad couldn’t find him, then I’d never again step foot in my basement, and would likely be forced to move out of the house.

The snake hadn’t moved by the time my dad arrived, who wanted to bring him outside so he could perform his critical role in the ecosystem. I had other plans for the fucker. Because of the heartache the snake caused me, I wanted vengeance and ordered my dad to kill him.

Like the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz, I have developed extraordinary courage. Yesterday I saw another ringneck snake in my basement, and instead of waiting for my dad, I took off my sandal and bashed his skull in. “Where you going, Snake? I’ll tell you where. You ain’t goin’ nowhere. Next time don’t fuck with The Benjy.”

So what if I just tough-talked a tiny dead baby ringneck snake?