This article is a bit late today because I had to spend part of my morning on a murderous rampage.

I’m not kidding. I took the lives of three this morning. Four the previous morning. Two last night. And three others the day before yesterday. Never have I killed with such ruthless efficiency or careless disregard for the sanctity of life. I regret nothing.

And who are my victims, you may ask, questioning if we should actually hang out this weekend…

Moths.

Apparently moth season is back, although I don’t remember receiving any notification from BIG MOTH about it, which is typical of these irritating little bastards. Although I should have known it was moth season considering it seems like every five years or so all the moths in the fucking world just descend on your house and don’t leave all summer. I hate moths.

But I hate moths in the same way Patton Oswalt describes the cop who gets startled by him while trying to write a parking ticket does. “You’re frightened for half a second… then you’re furious. Oh that thing is gonna die!” And then I stand there just staring it down like some unholy hybrid of Mr. Miyagi concentrating on catching a fly with the chopsticks and Andre Dawson burning a hole through a pitcher who dared to pitch him inside.

Then I wait. And when the time is right, with my toilet paper in my hand, I grab the motherfucker, squeeze him until I hear that gross little *click* and toss him into his watery grave where he will take a magical voyage through our municipal water treatment process. Strike first! Strike hard! No mercy!

You’d think our cats would be helpful in working toward our dream of living in a moth-free house, but you’ve clearly underestimated just how fat and lazy they both are. They’re a pan of lasagna away from going full-Garfield, although I suspect sometimes Jax sees Finn as his Nermal. And their hunting skills have eroded to just below fat, sleeveless t-shirt wearing, drunken Big Buck Hunter enthusiast at your neighborhood Toby Keith’s I Love This Bar and Grill™.

When Kristin and I didn’t live together, I remember one time I was at her house as Jax tracked a moth all over the living room. It stopped on the wall, and Jax perched himself on top of the couch. With the swift elegance of an outfielder robbing a homerun, Jax popped up on his hind legs, swatted the interloping moth with his giant 6-fingered mitt, and in one motion brought it to his face where he chomped down like an apex predator.

A disgusting cloud of dust shot out of his mouth, and, making the full transition from regal intimidation to hilarious parody, tried to chew this sumbitch looking like Mr. Ed with peanut butter stuck on the roof of his mouth. I’d love for him to resume his skillz that killz because for as cold-blooded as I’ve become in the moth genocide, I don’t like having to do it.

And my wife isn’t much help. See, she doesn’t trust things that fly, so when something’s near her head, she looks like a glitchy game of Fruit Ninja come to life. If you can picture Phil Brickma giving the sign to put in Henry Rowengartner, then you’ve got it. She moves quicker and more spastically than I can adequately describe with words.

So, skip to 1:00 of this clip and watch Jo Koy’s strategy for dealing with someone trying to fight him. That’s a rough approximation of watching Kristin deal with a fluttering moth. It’s equal parts hilarious and ineffectual.

So I’m largely on my own to defend our house from the moth invasion. If only I had an army of small Godzillas to take on these mini-Mothras, then I’d never have to leave the house. Although with an idea like that, I’d probably have to leave to buy weed at some point.

I guess I’ll just keep killing the moths.