My all-time favorite Gary Larson "Far Side" cartoon goes something like this . . .
The scene: a worm cocktail party. A worm couple sitting on the couch, getting cozy. Two worms in the corner, surveying the room.
The caption (paraphrased): Hey, check it out. Vinnie's over there on the couch trying to put the moves on Zelda Schwartz, but he's talkin' to the wrong end.
Now, is that a riot or what?
Given my affinity to this particular cartoon might lead you to presume that that same affinity exists for the real, live worm species. In that presumption, dear reader, you would be mistaken. I HATE worms. HATE, HATE, HATE them. I'm sure part of this detestation is a direct result of a traumatic experience I had in junior high. I was waiting at the bus stop with a bunch of other junior highers one rainy morning when one of them (he knows who he is) threw a worm at me. Which was bad enough. But to make it even more icky gross, the darn thing went down my shirt! I ran screaming back to my house, fell into the bathroom and ripped off my shirt, sobbing uncontrollably, I'm sure. Oh, the scars, the scars.
Lately I've come in contact (although not so literally) with a whole army of worms. After a good spring rain they are thick as thieves on the track at SMNorth. Big ones, little ones, fat ones, thin ones. Worms of all kinds leave the shelter and safety of the grass to wriggle across the rough surface of the track. I try very hard to walk around them, because, you know, I don't want worm guts on my shoes. But on Monday I'm sure I committed wormslaughter. More than once. And, I'm sad to report, I witnessed a worm suicide. Tragic thing, it was. And it was a giant worm (fat, fat, fat and about five inches long). I'm sure it had a wife and wormettes at home. I was on my seventh lap when I noticed it. It was headed straight for the drainage strip the rings the track. Sure enough, on my eighth lap it was nowhere to be found. Sure, it could have been an accident and had I been a nicer (or completely insane) person I could have picked it up and moved it to safety. Ok, so I wasn't Kevorkian, but I didn't do anything to prevent it, either.
Is that karma? Or just plain old revenge? Whatever it is, I'm just glad I didn't have to look at the slimy thing on my ninth lap. I'm tellin' you. The scars are deeeeeeppppp.
