Where Did I Put My Clown Shoes? And Step on It!
Here's one of those strange real-life coincidences which never fail to puzzle me when they occur.

Saturday evening, I typed my previous post, "Spider-Man 3: Kickin' It Old Skool," saving the document to publish the next morning. In the entry, I mentioned another party spraying Raid pest killer on a spider, an act I don't ever recall undertaking.

A few hours passed. I flipped the ceiling light switch on in our downstairs bathroom, only to discover a humongous spider standing in the sink and dominating the room, the house, my very existence, to say the least.

I am not exaggerating when I report that the breadth of the animal's legs spanned four to five inches, while at rest. It was fearsome -- the largest, scariest spider I've seen outside of a zoo or that deadly "Wild Wild West" movie.

Seconds later, I found myself spraying Raid on the beast.

I remain quite disturbed by the encounter, but household-invading critters are to be expected in a woodsy, rural locale.

That reminds me, it's Tax Assessor Season. (Note to Self: Restock gator moat.)

I have no idea what kind of spider I faced, but my first thought gasped "tarantula!" I eliminated that possibility when I recognized our spider was not furry, although mighty intimidating, nevertheless.

It was buff, black, wearing chukka boots (four pairs) and a Harley Davidson jacket with the collar up, no helmet. That's all I know.

And the Scotch is about gone.

I could've used some.
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