Man vs. Stink Bug: The Eternal Struggle

by Kaya

I had only smoked pot a couple of times at this point in my life. I was definitely in my “experimental” phase of the drug. I’d like to say I was wearing a white lab coat and jotting down data on a clipboard, but in reality, my “research” more focused on what foods best suited the vicious “something salty-something sweet, something salty-something sweet” cycle of stoner snacking. Just when you’d had enough salty Fritos to shred your tongue raw, a sip of a cold, wet, chocolate milkshake would soothe your mouth and reset the cycle. This is how you spend $23 at Denny’s. They cater to the cycle. Sure, their corporate office may claim ignorance, but it’s no coincidence that the entire menu is in photos and the French fries are on the same page as the key lime pie.

I was home from college on winter break and I had never been high at home, and definitely not in front of my parents. Coincidentally, some of my high school friends had also picked up this admirable thirst for drug knowledge while away at school. They were more than happy to further my research. I had been dropped off by my friends/accomplices after an evening of testing the disorienting effects of marijuana on the 18-year-old brain (perhaps the first study of its kind?). Before I went inside, I briefly prayed that my parents would be asleep. Then I prayed that we still had cookie dough in the fridge from the night before. Then I wondered how long I had been standing outside in the cold quietly praying for food.

Any confidence that I had walking up to the front door escaped me as I walked inside the house. I became hyper-aware that I most likely had blood-shot eyes, lazy speech and that I reeked of ‘wacky-tabacky’. “Well, my folks are probably asleep anyways…and if they’re not, I’ll just act natural. Like I would anytime I arrive home.” Ah, the simple reasoning of a stoned 18 year old.

With my stoner paranoia in check, I entered the house. I made it four steps before I ran into 1) My mother and 2) a big, black stink bug on the living room carpet. ‘OH SHIT,” my brain not-so-calmly noted. Okay, okay…what would I normally do if I saw a big, black stink bug on the living room carpet? My mind raced through all the files in my memory. Where is this particular situation filed in my brain? Under “Insects in the House?” Nope. Under “Carpet Issues?” Nothing. Under “Stoner Nightmares?” Not yet. I know why I can’t find anything in my memory on what to do when I come home and see a big, black stink bug on the living room carpet…BECAUSE IT HAS NEVER, EVER HAPPENED BEFORE.

So, what’s the logical thing to do? That’s right -- totally and completely freak out. Before I even greeted my Mom, I leapt into the air like an awkward and excessively aggressive ninja, landing with my right shoe squarely on top of the big, black stink bug on the living room carpet. WHAM! Was I done making an ass out of myself? Nope. Before I could grasp how bizarre I must have looked, I proceeded to jump up and down on this gooey mess of smashed beetle. WHAM, WHAM, WHAM! Each stomp of my foot as I jumped up and down on the long-dead bug was more damning to how insane I had become.

The dangerous and wily beetle was no more. I was victorious. My house was safe again. Yet my bravery had been overlooked. No one congratulated me on my martial arts skill or extermination technique. No one swooned at my heroic stomping. My weary, red-eyes only made it painfully clear that I needed to sit down, regroup and perhaps have a root beer float with rainbow sprinkles.

I looked up at my Mom. She sort of tilted her head like a puzzled dog would. Or like you would when your normally sane son repeatedly stomps a big, black stink bug into your living room carpet. I grabbed a paper towel and began to wipe up the ground in remains of this poor bug – a bug that just happened to catch me on the wrong night. Her smirk made it clear that she was “on to me”…or maybe her smirk said, “Yes, there is more cookie-dough in the fridge.” Either way, the ordeal was over. She kindly let me be and I replayed the incident in my head wondering how I didn’t pull a muscle.

On the plus side, I now have a file in my memory in case I run across a big, black stink bug on the living room carpet again. Unfortunately, it involves me freaking out and ruining the carpet.

Here's a Picture of the Fearsome Stink Bug