It is very strange to think that - with the acquisition of a house - I am now in possession of my own horrifying basement, which I am loath to enter.
Basements, as it is well known, are little more than caves where hairy spiders throb in the dark. The first time I ever came down here I saw a black widow, and so I am always on the lookout for them now. I don’t know if you’ve had the pleasure, and I’m terrified of the things, but there is something explicitly wicked in their shape that you almost have to respect. It’s not trying to trick you. It is all black, and shiny, and bears a hideous icon. It’s not the sort of thing you pet.
It doesn’t appear to be a new problem, either. It’s like an archaeological dig down here, filthy shelves laid heavy with the tools we used against their kind in a more civilized age. That shelf even has a couple of those old pump sprayers, the sort of thing I imagined was a movie prop until I saw it rusting down here. The lettering on the side proudly submits that the liquid within has been “cedarized,” which I take to mean it includes cedar, i.e. wood. I’ve guess bugs don’t like it? It cool if you want to kill bugs or whatever, but you don’t have to be a dick about it.
In any case, I believe the thinking has changed somewhat from that innocent age. We deployed “bug bombs” before we moved in, warheads which signify an arachnid apocalypse, and you can see in the helpful diagram on the box that it doesn’t just kill spiders - it first drives them insane, after which point a potpourri of designer chemicals pumps up their abdomens like a party balloon until they explode. I’m trying to tell you that it doesn’t just put some wood on there and call it a fucking day. It grips their biology and gives them a suplex at the molecular level.