Death visited the records room at work this week. It was quite a shock to come across the corpse, stiff and dry, lying on its back, its six hairy legs sticking straight up in the air. It was a dead roach.
I could not have been more astounded if I had come across the corpse of long-time-missing Teamster Jimmy Hoffa sprawled on his back on the tile floor.
I had never seen a dead roach. I suspected it was not possible to kill one. Maybe they live on for all eternity like “The Walking Dead.” After The Apocalypse, maybe all that will be left alive are Zombies and roaches.
A generous squirt of insecticide has been known to leave one with nothing but a slight cough and an expression of mild annoyance. On occasion I have soundly stomped on one with my giant Sasquatch-sized foot, leaving a good 40% of its body smeared on the bottom of my shoe, only to have the remaining 60%, none the worse for wear, scurry under the baseboard, where it continued to breed hundreds of hearty offspring.
Girl roaches apparently still are attracted to to a male who is missing a large chunk of thorax, two of its legs, and part of its head.
My first thought upon discovering the corpse was maybe it was not a roach. I could be mistaken. Maybe it is some other kind of insect. So I Googled “roach.” I would like to know what kind of a world we are living in where Google lists the definition of “roach” as the butt of a marijuana cigarette, but makes no mention of the insect scourge of mankind?
I finally found the definition I was looking for under the heading “cockroach.” Surprisingly enough, if you know me at all, I am going to refrain from comment on that compound verb, which could very well be used as the punchline of a dirty joke.
I don’t know how I could stand the apprehension of reentering the records room if I did not have that bottle of brandy filed under “s” for “snockered.”
The last place I worked, the boss found it and I told him that it was for the Cherries Jubilee that I planned to make him for lunch. In order to be convincing, I had to actually prepare the Cherries Jubilee. I accidentally set fire to the teachers’ lounge, which is probably why I don’t work there anymore.