You think no part of you is a vicious hunter. Well, you are wrong. All of your senses are attuned to the task of swatting a fly that is bothering you. You start stalking and you aim to kill. No no no no no do you not deny. Summer is coming and with it the fly season. It is so lovely to eat outdoors — sometimes a special thing that creates fond memories — perhaps with a special friend, now, sadly, picnicking elsewhere. For some damn reason, I don’t picnic as much as I used to. It is something that goes with young adulthood, I think, and special friend seduction. You know, blankets with plural purposes. This fond memory creation requires a lovely summer day and a lovely friend. You have to admit that all this loveliness can be damaged by the predatory appetite of some winged creatures that each seem to have their special season. All of them prey upon lovely picnics. Mosquitoes follow right on the heels of black flies. They have heels? Well, yes, I suppose they do have heels. If they’ve got feet, they probably have heels — and probably the lady black flies have high heels.
Any Canadian will explain, if you require it, that summer heat discourages black flies and mosquitoes but is the very province of the nasty buzzing house fly who also likes the outdoors — and picnics — just like you. Spread a blanket on the ground. If the ground is icy, you probably will not need to do any stalking I imagine, though, that it does not seem sufficient reason to limit your picnicking to the wintertime. You might manage to find a place where there are no ants. You will probably not find a place with no flies because they are airborne and can find you immediately using artificial intelligence. Don’t tell me you don’t remember such an occasion fondly. If your picnic memory is not fond, I will guess that your territorial instinct and predatory stalking failed to meet the challenge of winged creatures in their season.
Now you have spread your blanket. You have arranged the baskets, plastic ware, and liquid pleasure containers — what a tidy guy, she is impressed. and now you set about creatively composing a high pile of edible substances from jars on a piece of bread which you will then flatten with another piece of bread and eat with elegance if you have made it thin enough to bite. Picnic elegance is slightly less demanding than restaurant elegance. She does not make this same distinction but has less need to talk as you are explaining many things she needs to know while chewing big bites skilfully. Oh damn, there’s this annoying buzz flying right around your face it’s a big fly that won’t leave you alone or your sandwich but you feel quite selfish about your conversation and your vicious killer instincts are beginning to surface as the fly gets more and more annoying. It is doing laps between your sandwich and your face. You could even set the sandwich down to swat the fly. No that won’t work, will it? And suddenly the absurd image of your hand, swatting a fly on your sandwich fills your mind with condiments and salami flying in all directions. No, of course, you will not do such a stupid thing. To prevent the fly from ever landing on your sandwich, not now, not later, not ever — well, you can’t keep the sandwich in your hands either, if you’re going to get that fly to make sure he’s not ever going to bother anybody again — which is what you tell yourself to excuse the murder you’re about to commit. Your distraction has become so interruptive that your explanations are no longer emerging as organized sentences but as lame sequences with chewing. Your special someone is looking at you with bland amusement. It is the capper. You put what’s left of the sandwich on a napkin, and swallow hard. No longer talking to the lovely someone, you are now talking compulsively to the fly. “ You little son of a bitch, You think you’re in control of this situation but you are not. I am smarter than you and you are going down. Just as soon as you land somewhere I’m going to squish you like a bug, like the bug you are. Come on! Land! Land dammit.” You put a bowl over your sandwich. Now committing to the imminent death of the fly over any other important matter, you begin stalking. That is to say, instead of waving your hands about, you become still so the fly will not be alerted to your lethal intention. You are watching intently. You are the leopard waiting to leap. The fly behavior changes too, not buzzing frantically.
No, he is circling at a lower level looking for a tiny bit of sandwich or at least a landing place on bare skin where he can continue some slight annoyance. He lands on your forearm. You smack yourself hard, leaving a red place, but you miss the fly. You resume your attentiveness and another opportunity presents itself. The fly lands on your bare knee. It is a larger area with skin stretched tight by your position, an altogether good place to execute a fly. You stalk carefully. Good, the fly appears inattentive, rubbing his hind legs together. You stalk. You move your hand close leaving room for the quick swing that will send the fly to oblivion. Wham! Unbelievably you have missed again and the fly saunters lazily away.
Despite this annoying episode with the fly and your unproductive stalking, your picnic turned out rather well — a fond memory with your special someone appreciative of your erudition.
Now, dear reader, I will share a fly-stalking technique with a good success ratio. Using both hands, you stalk from the sides until your hands contain an airspace 6 inches wide directly over the fly. Clap your hands together. Flies do not start like birds moving their wings first. They jump into the air before moving off in any direction. Your fly will be right between your two hands when they meet. Yippee! a tiny bit of usefulness