The Stuff of Nightmares

The modern earwig contributes a great deal to our world by eating dead and decaying plant and animal matter, one that arguably rivals my own efforts to better this world. Even so, the little critters give me the heebie-jeebies, and I don't like them one bit.

According to the wisdom contained on the Internet, they don't attack or eat people, at least live ones, but I have troubling memories of receiving bites from them when I was a kid. Now, as far as I know, they've yet to climb into my bed, sneak into my ears, and much on my warm, delicious brain while I slept, but I wouldn't put it past them. They could be the reason why I'm becoming increasingly forgetful.

Years ago, when I was living at the beach, they would occasionally show up in great numbers along a small concrete wall where we'd gather to barbecue and celebrate the warm weather with massive amounts of cheap beer. It was then that I discovered a helpful chink in their armor -- their complete lack of defense against swung hammers -- and exploited it, sending many of them to the great beyond.

Now, however, after years of hiding and not bothering me at all, they've returned, and one could say with a vengeance without exaggerating in the slightest. They seem to love the comfort and concealment my new car cover provides, and every morning when I unwrap my car, a few dozen are found lurking within its folds.

Although I've learned to expect them there, seeing their masses so early in the morning startles me into wakefulness in a way mere caffeine cannot. I jump. I nearly shout. I get shivers both up and down my spine.

It certainly isn't moist inside there, so I have no choice but to discount all that talk of them seeking those types of locations. As far as I know, there isn't much in the way of decomposing animals or plants there, either, so I can only assume they only do it because they enjoy seeing my reaction.

I let them, mostly, scurry away, something they're quite good at, after punching the car cover to dislodge them, but a dozen or so end up on the hood of the car and as often as not get a free ride until they blow off or choose to jump. I'd like to think they've learned not to leave the embrace of the lawn, but these stubborn earwigs must be as adventurous as early American explorers.

I'm not sure what to do, but I still own a hammer.