today was a life and death experience. Niels and myself were cornered in the cabin by an angry, muscular wasp.
we panicked at first, and opened and closed all the doors several times (which is quite a feat because the sliding door is broken and takes the strength of an ox or thirty Chris Hemsworths to open) in an effort to "entice" the wasp to the sunny weather outside. We even tried coaxing it verbally, like reasoning with it; "C'mon, Mr. Wasp! The weather is grand, it's stuffy in here, it smells like dust!" On and on. If anything, we more convinced ourselves that our living conditions are sub par to say the least. Once it relaxed and sat on the windshield, we had also calmed down slightly to the point where we could look at the situation logically.
"What if I played loud music at it?" the first idea of mine; Niels was still in some sort of stupor, barely holding himself in consciousness. So I took the matter into my own hands and grabbed the crappy speakers we've been using, chose the song "I Worship Only What You Bleed" by the Black Dahlia Murder, and held the speakers next to the wasp menacingly. just so you can have an idea, here's a clip of the song:
after that failed and the wasp gave each of us a dumbstruck look, I put the speakers down with a new determination, a fire in my eyes, if you will. I picked "Habanera" by Bizet for the soundtrack, and circled around the wasp with a long-necked lamp that I found in the back room. By this time Niels had gotten grips of himself and was encouraging me like I was some kind of gladiator.
"Come on, kill it!"
"Here, take out the lightbulb and I'll trap it in the end of the lamp and hold it there forever."
"Alright, good idea."
This obviously didn't work, and it flew around the room erratically like a drunken boxer. Niels and I, each holding one of his Birkenstocks and poised in the 'ready' position, (knees slightly bent, elbows at the sides, eyes unflinching on your target) were startled slightly, but still ready.
The wasp finally settled on a picture of Jesus I drew that we hang up on a nail in the ceiling for Sundays, and Niels and I resolved to both swat air at it with our Birkenstocks in unison. This also failed and I lunged forward in complete desperation and struck the paper wildly. It flew towards the door, but was all "Psych, this is MY house now!" and veered around and flew straight towards us angrily. I assessed the situation, and decided to run towards it, dodging its trajectory and out the door. Niels just cowered behind a cabinet with his Birkenstock over his head. The wasp decided to search for sweeter blood, I suppose, and explored the rest of the cabin. It settled on another window, and I dashed inside and grabbed my trusty lamp, brandishing it in front of me like Glamdring,
and began to poke at The Wasp uneasily. Just as 'Habanera' struck those four famous forte notes, I struck the wasp, injuring its wing! It crawled, not necessarily defeated, up into the side of the window, most likely to plan a counter attack, but I wouldn't have any of that. I opened the window with one hand, it crashed downward, and I stabbed at the wasp hidden in the side of the window with all my strength. it dodged, and flew, cursing, out the window. I shut the window again behind it and gave an enormous bellow of victory. Niels and I high-fived, of course, and God shed a prideful tear. We left the cabin, beaming, for the main house to eat our dinner of pita pockets, with a tale to tell future generations and a newfound strength in ourselves.
Any wasps that are reading this: DON'T FLY INTO OUR CABIN.