— Jiminy Crab Cakes, what in the name

of all that is good and, like, you know,

fucking holy is that thing?



— It’s, ah, looking right at me, the kind

of stare that lays bare ones innermost

conviction that Descartes was full

of shit, that we need better proof to

argue our existence on a world that

could produce this, ah, thing that

is currently giving me the willies.



— A fucking cicada? You think it’s a

fucking cicada? Why don’t you come

look at it? It’s got these like, oh God,

are those veins coursing up and down

its flanks as it lazily kicks one segmented

leg in the air? Those are firehoses, deep

sea oil pipelines, autobahns engorged

with sticky black traffic.



— I’m not going to, ah, touch it.



— Ugh. It’s like squinting at me somehow.

I can’t smell it, but I’m confident that if I

moved my face closer, it would reek like

the tomb. I find myself inevitably doubting

the awkward, fumbling advances of those

who insist on Nature’s master design plan

coming from some sort of creative intelligence.



— Or if it did, he/she was having one hell of an off day.






— I’m the coward? I’m the coward?

Did you see it fly at me just then? Miss


is forced to conclude that I am the coward

in this relationship from her lofty perch.



— Great.



— You know, I really think that may

actually have been a cicada.