Pop Culture ID

I am from a galaxy far, far away: wistful sunsets and lifeless ice cubes. I am from the Final Frontier: the SS Botany Bay and the HMS Bounty. I am from Tatooine, Vulcan, Cloud City, and the Alpha Quadrant. I’m a doctor, not a scruffy nerd-hearder.

I am from the great divide, Eureka Creek and the Five Mile: brumbies, stagecoaches, and bullwhips. I am from extended families, mountain men and their horses. The stew had turnips in it, and taters in it, and rabbits in it; well, I don’t always eat wallaby, son!

I am from the sewers of New York City: cowabunga, pizza, and turtle ninjas. I am Donatello and Michelangelo. I am from Xavier’s school for the gifted: playing cards, trench coats, and bo staff Cajun gambits. Sacre bleu!

I am from Cleveland, Jacob’s Field and the comeback kids. I am from elation, heartbreak, and all the old familiar losses. I am from the sandlot, Babe Ruth, and legends that never die. Bury my heart at Pro Player Stadium.

I am from Serenity Valley, the black and browncoats. This is a fertile land and we will call it “this land” and you cannot take the sky from me. I am from the signal that cannot be stopped, and a preacher called Book. I aim to misbehave.

I am from Sunnydale High: the life, love, and hell of high school. I am from the Powers That Be, Pylea, and the dimensions of hell. The world is doomed, but I want the dragon: I’ve never fought one before. All that matters is the fight and the soul within that yearns to be human again.

I am from the Internet, where One Must Fall and the earth is scorched. I am from the Bean-With-Bacon-Megarocket, WinAmp, Kazaa and shareware. I am from floppy disks, up-dialing, and AOL. I am from Steve Jobs, the iPod, iTunes, and iBook G4s back when tigers roared. And one more thing…

I am from Billund’s little yellow men: studs that construct worlds from the ether of imagination. I am from the baseplate, the brick, and the bi-plane. Build me up, tear me down, make me new again.


Here I am, staring at my mortal enemy while calming eating a bowl of corn flakes.

I sit mere inches from him, staring into his deadly eyes. I shovel another spoonful of food into my mouth, a bit of milk dribbles down my lip and into the maze that is my beard. It’ll emerge a bit later once it finds its way through the hirsute labyrinth. Meanwhile, my enemy works his mouth, clear rage evident. Despite my proximity and his hostility, I am unafraid. For now: I’ve got him imprisoned, captured, incarcerated. His compatriot, comrade in arms was not so lucky. He drowned in pool of toxic foam. I’m sure it was horrible and painful. Probably a bit light, and fluffy as well.

I accidentally surprised my captive’s co-counterinsurgent early this morning. I walked by the bathroom door, which was shut, and noticed the light was on inside. Ordinarily this wouldn’t arouse my suspicions but a quick check over my shoulder confirmed my information: my wife was dressing in the bedroom. Well, she was preparing to dress; that is to say, she was standing in her underwear contemplating which of several dresses to wear, which was much more exciting to watch than it sounds like.

At any rate, she wasn’t in the bathroom. So, before entering, I thought I should check. “Um, who’s in the bathroom?” I asked, with a fair amount of uncertainty. Perhaps we had picked up a hobo during the night. After all, it was an unexpectedly warm evening and I had opened the windows to let in the heat. My wife looked up, startled out of her deep dress contemplation. “Oh. I think there’s a bee in there.” Oh. Just a bee. How kind of her to lock my mortal enemy in a small room with bright lights and not tell me. Isn’t that an interrogation method, to be used before the water boarding and such? “Section 3, Paragraph 12: Lock insurgent in small room. Engage bright lights. Bake for 30 minutes or until crispy. Follow with gentle irrigation.” Why was my wife intentionally torturing a bee, a mortal enemy, and neglecting to tell me?

Was this a hint about the future of the marriage? I couldn’t wait to unravel the mystery. Besides, my wife was shrugging on the dress she had evidently chosen for the day, and the show was over. I hurried over to my arms chest, which is also where we store the spare kitchen supplies, and retrieved my ammunition, which is innocuously labeled as Wasp and Hornet Spray. Sneaky, I know. Sneakily, I crept up on the bathroom, terrorist still locked inside. I made sure to make as little noise as possible as I bumped into a stool, knocked some books to the floor and crashed into the wall, dislodging a picture of my wife and I being happy.

Tremulously, I reached for the doorknob. Frightfully, I turned it, the sweat on my palm making it a bit of a challenge. Taking every precaution, I eased the door open a millimeter at a time. Stepping into the bathroom, I quickly scanned for my foe. There! He was furtively trying to hide behind a compact, energy efficient fluorescent light bulb. The bastard. He was probably trying to set some
charges in a dastardly attempt to blow my Western, decadent energy saving ways back to the Dark Ages. Well, he wouldn’t get the chance. I uncapped the Wasp and Hornet Spray and unleashed foaming hell. With a Rambo yell that startled my wife I sprayed. Lancing white foamy death caught my enemy at full force and point blank range. He simply could not react fast enough to achieve powered flight and instead of launching an air raid he simply crashed and foamed to the bathroom sink. Not pausing to determine the state of his mortality, I unleashed another barrage. By now the foam was aerosolizing and I was choking on my own chemical attack. I engaged the bathroom fan, and when the fumes subsided, I saw that my enemy was dead. Victory.

“I got ’em!” I called to my wife, who through the whole battle was calmly checking to make sure her purse was loaded with lip gloss and that her phone’s battery was charged. “Oh, good” she murmured. “Thanks.”

A few minutes later, she reaped her reward for her lackluster praise of my inestimable courage in the face of battle. My combatant’s backup unit was attached to the kitchen window. While I plotted an attack strategy and readied my weapon for a second onslaught, my wife secured a plastic container from a nearby supply cabinet and trapped our uninvited guest against the glass. I rummaged up a piece of cardboard and slid it beneath his clear, domed prison. Thus secured, I carried the by now quite angry and agitated former threat and set him on the kitchen table. I then stacked a few books and a brick on top of the tupperwear to ensure that he remain trapped.

I kissed my wife goodbye as she left for work, then realized the morning’s battle had left me famished, so I hunted for breakfast.

Which is how I came to be eating cornflakes while staring at my mortal enemy, who is walking upside-down on the top of his prison in a very threatening manner.

But he will get his. Unlike his compadre, who died rapidly in much foam, this soldier will die agonizingly, gasping for breath as he uses up his supply of oxygen. If there is a more humane way to help my enemy to expire, I don’t want to know about it. I hate him, and his kind, and everything they stand for, which, apparently, is terrorizing me on my balcony.

This battle is mine. And so will the war be.

I love the smell of wasp killer in the morning. Smells like victory. And Lambda-cythalothrin. And Other Ingredients.