Ad-libbed versus the spider

Last night I faced down the spider.

We’ve had a spider living in our basement for several days now, and he’s huge. Since last Saturday when I first noticed him, he and I have maintained a tense but tacit agreement. The terms are simple: I stay upstairs and pretend he’s not living in our house, and he stays downstairs and doesn’t try to eat our dog.

Unfortunately though, our nervous detente could not last, for a man’s home is his castle and a man must defend that castle against all enemies – foreign, domestic, and arachnid.

Plus sometimes a man runs out of clean boxer shorts and needs to go downstairs to do laundry.

So last night I decided to deal with the problem. I called out to my wife and daughters for moral and physical support and, as usual when it comes to battling giant insects, no one appeared.

I called to them again.

“Somebody fetch me that big wooden stick that we use to build blanket forts in the living room,” I said, “and bring me the biggest Tupperware container you can find. I’m going to face the spider.”

Upon hearing those words, both Eldest and Youngest Daughter materialized instantly, staring at me with a new found respect. And that respect was justified, for this spider was especially large and menacing, obviously of the Latin genus holy-crappus-he’s-biggus. His disposal would require the special level of care and attention normally demonstrated by the likes of bomb disposal experts and professional Jenga players.

Steadfast, I trudged downstairs. Rounding the corner, I could feel the spider watching me, measuring my resolve. Undaunted, I stared him straight in the eye. And in all his other eyes.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Dave?” the spider seemed to say.

Thankfully, my name is not Dave, and I knew that he was simply trying to distract me with eerily accurate classic sci-fi movie references. I also knew if I could use my stick to poke him into the Tupperware container and quickly secure the lid, victory would be mine.

But if he lunged for my throat – as I sensed he was considering – I’d have no alternative. I’d have to do what any rational person would do, which would be throw the Tupperware in the spider’s general direction and run away while brushing wildly at my hair and screaming.

Fortunately, I was more agile than he anticipated. With two deft pokes of my stick, the spider was in the plastic container, and I quickly secured the lid. I watched the spider for a few moments as he paced angrily inside. Judging from his hostile glare and sweeping arm gestures, I could tell exactly what he was planning to do to me as soon as he got out.

“I’m comin’ to get you, buddy,” he was saying. “I’m gonna murder your family. I’m gonna sting you in your eyeballs. I’m gonna lay three hundred kajillion eggs in your ear canal. I’m gonna…”

His rant continued, but I had no desire to keep him around any longer than necessary. I followed the time-tested protocol endorsed by leading insect specialists for the disposal of ticked-off, vengeance-seeking spiders, which is to toss the entire container in a random dumpster several miles from our house.

Reflecting on the ordeal, I can safely say that I’m proud of myself. I faced down my fears and emerged from my trial victorious. I truly feel I’m now a better human being.

Plus I once again have a dresser drawer full of clean ginch. Bonus.

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.