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I took myself out for a leisurely limp yesterday evening. It was cool and damp, and the smell of the earth was sweetly enticing as I meandered through the thick night air.

At one point, I decided it was a good idea to set a spell and rest. I mean, it takes a lot of effort to mosey on down the street in a brace in hopes of getting some much-needed exercise.

BIG mistake.

You see, I’m what’s known as the mosquito’s version of Ben and Gerry’s. Everything from Rocky Road to Praline, I’m apparently this tiny vampire’s favourite flavours.

So, as I sat quietly, the moon peeking through the clouds, alighting my place in the cool, green grass; I apparently had my shingle hung out, lit in neon, inviting these tiny Messerschmitt’s in for a little Type “O” refreshment.


And a slappin’ I did go.

No matter how many of them I sent to glory, no never mind how I managed to make once pulsing bodies resemble pore pudding, the relentless blood junkies just kept on coming. It was literally my own private episode of “The Walking Dead”, starring yours truly as that episode’s meal of choice.

If only mosquito mashing was a profitable enterprise. I’d have cleaned up nicely.

Now, while I sit here, covered in calamine, trying my damnedest not to raise the welts higher than they need be, I am wondering why I keep claiming that spring is one of my two favourite seasons. I mean, this feeding frenzy is nothing more than a prelude to July and its joyful noises as bug after bloody bug find their way into your ears, nose, mouth, skin, shoes, bedroom, car, what have you.


Pass the Raid. Hell, pass me a flamethrower, hold the citronella.

So, as I gear up to take another drag down the street today, I’m going out armed and bloody dangerous.

I’m wearing my suit of armour, in the guise of a liberal slathering of Skin So Soft (thank you Avon for helping keep these nippers at bay, while giving me that oh so wonderful feeling of geriatric old lady freshness). I guarantee you that under the balmy springtime sun, I’ll permeate the layer of ozone I’m occupying a couple of miles below in the 49th parallel.


En Garde bloodsuckers! Take that black fly!.

Unfortunately, this wonderful elixir of calm isn’t going to help me much when the June bugs awaken.

Now, for the life of me, I have no earthly idea what the hell the purpose of a June bug is. Honestly, I don’t. I do know that one of their missions during their brief time airborne is to dive bomb my head as often as possible, being absolutely certain to hit me as many times, and in as many tender places as they are capable of during their brief but horrid lives.



Well, metinx God above has a sense of humour, and is looking down at his little big bear and laughing hysterically. He does this as one of his creatures, small yet great, bitch slaps some humility into my furry assed self.

Outside of giving The Almighty a front row seat to the Tazzybehr Olympics, I honestly cannot see any usefulness, let alone functional purpose for these stinky, oily brown beetles. None. NADA!


So, I think I’ll reconsider Spring as I scratch myself bloody. Hell, I’ll dream of sealing myself up inside a Ziploc bag as I sneeze my ten thousand sneezes; the ones that come from the maple tree right outside my bedroom window.

A Canuck allergic to a maple tree. How’s that for irony.

In the grand scheme of things, however, I do insist upon keeping my positive thoughts about Springtime intact. I mean, all the suffering is worthwhile once I see that special shade of Kelly green. It’s here for far too short a time, then it’s soon a fading memory; as the forested shades of Summer streaks across the horizon. It’s magical, and totally worth the discomfort, the temporarily itchy and disfiguring welts upon my legs and arms (and back, and chest, and face, and…well, you get the idea).

In my estimation, it’s our reward for enduring the long, harsh winter, well worth the price; even though I can forget breathing clearly for the next six months.

Nature’s eye candy will always trump the welts and sniffles. I’ll take two tulips with a Claritin chaser, thank you very much!


God might have decided long ago that I’d be his never-ending punchline, but he also paints an awesome landscape for his Little Tazzy; one that truly makes all the scratching, wheezing and dodging worthwhile.

Seize the day folks, walk softly, carrying a large bottle of Deet.

Da Taz!