Whatever the nature of Ultimate Reality is--and I'm talking about what's really going on, of which the world of experience is mere illusion, shadows on the wall of Plato's cave--I'm pretty sure it involves giant camel crickets being our insect overloads. How else can we explain the extreme, prerational revulsion all decent people have upon seeing one?

For centuries there'd been a war between the spiders and the camel crickets in the basement. Every so often I had to beat a camel cricket to death with a shovel, but all in all it was a happy stalemate.

But last night Jaimee woke me up at 3 am to kill one that had somehow managed to get into the bathroom. We think it's the genius who tried to escape earlier while Jennie T. was doing laundry in the basement; this was one very smart cricket.

It was in the sink when I got there. I threw a pair of shorts over it to thwart its megajump and drowned the bastard. God, I hate camel crickets. And in the real world, they're using us for batteries (or something). They're evil.

(Yes, I'm a vegetarian. No, horrible insects (who have no capacity to experience pain, one assumes) don't count.)