To the female crickets located near my basement apartment. You missed your chance last night with one of the most eligible cricket bachelors last night. The reason: he's dead!
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The male cricket, let's just call him Jim, really fucked up. He had his chance to score some cricket-poontang last night, but he made two big mistakes.
The first mistake was looking for love in my bedroom. If he had done a little research he would know that females are present in my bedroom about as often as Hale-Bopp comet passes by the Earth. Jim the Cricket was looking for love in all the wrong places.
The second mistake was singing his love serenade, aka his mating call, or chirping I like to call it, in my room at 3AM. I was having quite a bit of trouble getting to sleep last night, and just when I was starting to doze . . . you guessed it - CHIRP!! CHIRP!! CHIRP!! I was pissed and left a nice impression of my knuckles in the dry wall.
This is where the hunt begins. The trouble with hunting crickets at night is that they only chirp when the lights are off, so it's hard to find them. If you turn on the light, they run and hide. Me, being the crafty, resourceful devil that I am, found two key items that allowed me to bag my trophy cricket: a headlamp flashlight and a rubber mallet. So off the lights went . . . and I listend for the sound. Sure enough I was able to locate his approximate location by sound. So I flipped on the headlamp quick enough to see him scurry into the little gap between the carpet and the floor molding where I had tucked in my speaker wires. In a shear act of brilliance, I whipped the speaker wire up, popping old Jim out on to the floor, where he met the brutal force of my rubber mallet.
So, you see, you little cricket strumpets, last night instead getting a good cricket sticking from Jim, you were left all alone. Tell the boys that the Cricket Hunter is out there, so beware. I bid you aideu.
this is in or around My bedroom