Can we all just agree to agree that geraniums are stupid?

Their “blooms” look like either '80s prom scrunches or gloopy blood clots, their leaves are so dense that they divert water from the watering can to the outside of the pot instead of to the thirsty, thirsty soil beneath, and they smell all over like cadaverous spider farts and dusty boredom.

FACT:

You eat 28 spiders in your sleep each calendar year. Always 28. If you’ve eaten only 3 so far in 2018, good luck falling asleep tonight.

I’m now in the market for a new car

because as I was driving home from rehearsal tonight I felt a spider land on my ear and a wisp of spider web wrap across my face so I slammed on the brakes in the middle of First Avenue, ran screaming down the street, came back with an industrial-grade blowtorch and set the whole thing on fire.

I’m also now in the market for a new set of skin because I immediately went to a nuclear power plant and had a full-Silkwood scrubdown.

My boss just found a spider on her desk

which of course means the entire office is infested with spiders which of course means that I have at least 80 spiders crawling around in my shirt and if you need me I'll be running down the street and tearing off my clothes and dousing myself with gasoline and screaaaaasaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

FACT:

You eat 28 spiders in your sleep each calendar year. Always 28. If you’ve eaten only 3 so far in 2017, good luck falling asleep tonight.

I do miracles

Do you see my (mighty, manly) thigh here? Do you see how spider-free it is?


Do you understand how vital -- VITAL! -- it is for my non-creepiness-of-mind and for the general common good and for the precarious safety of our very nation that my thigh stay completely spider-free at all times, especially -- ESPECIALLY! -- when I casually look down from my "Hair" medley music in Follies rehearsal because something light brown and crawly and the size of my ever-loving EAR catches my eye because it looks like it kind of slightly maybe couldn't-possibly-be crawling across my the crisp dark denim thigh area of my brand-spider-free-new jeans and by the time my casual glance down turns into a transfixed-paralyzed-scream stare I realize that THERE! IS! A! SPIDER! ON! ME!

But please try to stay calm and do not spill into the streets like feral marmosets. I have the situation under control. I've already dissolved my brand-new, crisp-dark-denim jeans in acid, severed my leg and stuffed it by dark of night into an industrial-grade wood chipper, burned down our rehearsal space, poisoned the entire state of Iowa with anthrax, and sold the Louisiana Purchase back to the French. So I think the spider is gone.

If you didn't become unfortunate but obviously necessary collateral damage in my perfectly-reasonable-given-the-circumstances spider extermination, you're welcome.