When I was a child, moles invaded our homestead. They tunneled around the yard, basking in the soil and in creating an elaborate underground mole world. Betty, my mother, did not like the mole gentrification of our yard. She said that moles were pests who deserved to die, much like spiders and other creepy crawlies. Betty tried poison and home remedies alike, but nothing seemed to do the trick. Month after month, the moles taunted her by creating new colonies (now is the time to interject: my mother made me stomp down the mole runs. I also did not like doing this because, even at age eight, I understood futility).
Knowing of the family's mole problem, a neighbor jokingly suggested that the rodential ruckus would end—if only my mother were to "shoot the dang things." All of the adults got a chuckle from this outlandish idea. All except one. When we looked at my mother's face, it was as though she had been divinely blessed with great rodent-murdering insight.
Betty bought a Smith and Wesson pistol within a week, and then she began to plan her kills. She preferred to hunt in the morning, "when they're really moving." She would gingerly stomp the mole runs flat and patiently wait for one of them to pop up again—a sure sign that a mole was busy burrowing. She'd carefully aim her pistol at the ground, pull the trigger, and then, BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAMBLAM! BLAM.
Originally, these shots were followed with her call: "Bob! Baaaa-ahbbb. I need you to dig the mole up!" My father, a patient and peaceful man, would grudgingly comply. He and I both disliked being drawn into my mother's murderous plots, as we did not share in her bloodlust. When he expressed this to my mother ("They're just doing their job, and I hate to see the bloody little things") she agreed.
"You're right," she mused, gently caressing the cold steel of the pistol. "If we leave the dead ones in there, it'll be a message to the other moles." After that summer, we never had a mole problem again.
7.15.2002
I’ve got an idea for a new reality television show. It’s called Assclown of the Week (ACTW). The concept is simple: cameras follow me around the city during various run-ins with jerks, and the at-home viewers can call a toll-free number to vote for that week’s winner. After the votes are tallied, the cameras will capture Ed McMahon as he surprises the Assclown-elect with the big news. ACTW will then have to decide if he or she wants to walk around with a sandwich board (“I am the ACTW. Ask me about my shyster ways!”) for a chance at winning my gentle forgiveness or prizes, whichever they want.
This week’s contestants: driver of the gigantic teal SUV who almost hit me on Division yesterday, flipping me off though I inarguably had the right-of-way; the lad who talks about how he’d be sad if we didn’t stay friends after dumping me, but only monosyllabically acknowledges me at the Empty Bottle before winning a gold medal in the avoidance Olympics; pushy guy who pressured Karinsa to play video poker with him, but turned surly when she politely and kindly declined.
To keep the program somewhat cheery, we will also feature Good Egg of the Week. This week’s nominees: the boys of Italo, for looking irrepressibly happy while playing their instruments; the cheerful cashier at Target, for managing to be genuinely nice to people even though she doesn’t have to be; Miles, for seeing that I was about to come apart on Wednesday, and pulling me back together with a kind squeeze of the shoulder.
The good thing is that it was harder to come up with a list of meanies than sweeties. But you know, you don’t win the Nielsens with tales of love and happiness.
