My neighbor finally agreed to the severe pruning of his weeping willow, a "Little Shop of Horrors" reprise that enfolded the chimney of my house. Having cleared the offending tinder, I elected to have an expert resuscitate the gas log in the FP. Needed a new "generator." To my non-surprise, a "generator" is the new and vastly higher priced equivalent of what I knew as a "thermocouple."
"Generates a whole lot more juice," Herr Professor informed me as he scribbled on the invoice. The only legible item, of course, was the total cost, which bullion I handed over.
This evening, the XYL hosts semi-annual Bunco evening -- a raucous gathering of very noisy women who drink lots of bad wine and eat hundred-weights of bad food -- so I bethought me to ignite the newly renovated FP just to shine a bit, as they say in those benighted climes where such expressions are de rigueur.
Wrong!
Upon opening the doors and flinging back the screens, I was confronted with a scene that might have brought forth a gasp from Gregor Samsa. How Herr Professor had managed to work in the midst of this throng should be recorded by an anthropologist. It is worthy of study. I was faced with a wriggling mass of olfactory riot. Igniting the gas did little more than piss the throng off to the point where they coursed through the fenêtre nearly bowling me over as they rushed out of my artificial Hades.
The only recourse was to seek a technological edge, so I flew to the basement, chortling all the way down the stairs. I returned armed with an industrial wet/dry vacuum boasting 2.5 HP and dimming the lights like an execution in one of those old William Bendix prison movies. My plan, of course, was to dispatch the SBs with the same alacrity that Hollywood applied to Lefty.
Wrong, plus!
Once sucked into the bowls of the whirlwind and mashed into a noisome pulp, the air exiting my machina terrible was far more objectionable than the unassaulted hexapoda. The entire house now reeked of halyomorpha halys.
Fortunately, I hit upon the idea of lighting scented candles -- of which the XYL has a collection that would bring a blush to Martha Stewart -- and seeing if the overpowering perfume of myriad pumpkins, apples, cedar glades and sundry would bring relief.
It is hard now to know which I prefer, the stink bugs or the damned candles...
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Originally Posted by W3MIV
