You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Cicadas.
If you live in Middle Tennessee right now you know what I’m talking about. You hear them in your sleep. You hear them in your wake. You open your mouth to yawn and a prehistoric flying snot ball errantly flies into your throat.
DISGUSTING.
What are Cicadas?
They are flying beetle like insects with huge red eyes and a cock roach like exoskeleton. They are ugly like a B movie Godzilla.
Unless they poke you in the eye or you swallow one down the wrong pipe, they are pretty harmless.
While they are reasonably safe, they are unbelievably loud.
Cicadas sing like a chorus of chain saws. they sound like a thousand maracas shaking simultaneously in a Brazilian Mardi Gras.
These nasty little creatures pulse through the bushes and trees like machine guns full of snot.
They are loud like your drunk father in law. They are obnoxious like that uncle who thinks its OK to smoke inside. They are ugly like a 1970’s super model with her 18th botox injection.
And talk about useless. They fly like a dirigible in a gusty wind. They are as aerodynamic as an Egg McMuffin. When they come out in full force, they are a plague of biblical proportions. They blot out the sun and destroy trees at a single meal. And when they hit your windshield, they don’t bounce off lightly. They hit the glass like a bag full of rancid yoke. At its worst, Cicada nation is bouncing off your windshield like prehistoric hail.
The thing about cicadas is why? They are dormant in the ground for 13 years. 13 years! I mean what’s the sense? Why wake up at all? What kind of evolutionary blue print has you waking every thirteen years to eat some leaves and wake the dead? They live for like a month, then they die again.
Cicadas are a worthless creature that ostensibly serve no purpose. Like members of Congress they fly around buzzing incessantly driving you nuts, getting in your face, in your ear, and accomplishing nothing but agitation.
Can you imagine if the entire human race went to sleep for 13 years only to reemerge and start buzzing. It’s like the Democratic party after the Carter administration; a lot of buzz, but not much action.
If Donald Trump would go Cicada, I’d be all for it.
For you out of towners coming to Nashville this weekend, be forewarned. Carry a Cicada umbrella and breathe through your nose. Cicadas are to Nashville what smog is to LA. Cicadas are to Middle Tennessee what Fog is to San Francisco.
Late addendum to this Cicada ordeal and this is the God’s Honest truth: I just pumped gas, got back in my car and began driving out of the station when I hear this buzzing sound. Damn, there’s a cicada in my car I think. I look around frantically. Buzz. Buzz. Suddenly – horror. The cicada is in my pants. What. I freak. slam the car into park. I roll up my pant leg and there it is. BUZZ. BUZZ. big red eyes. spooky. I am about to slam it, then I think, I don’t want yellow matted custard dripping from a dead cicada’s eye all over my pants. I hop out of the car. Now patrons at the gas station are staring. What’s that dude hopping around for. I roll up my pants frantically and try to isolate the little red eyed demon. BUZZ BUZZ. I swat it and it lumbers away, stupidly. I am sure it is going to fly into a Mack truck and die a squashed death. At least it’s not in my pants.
Because Cicadas are Crazy. ™