Someone once told me that a person unknowingly eats about two spiders a year. This usually happens while the person is asleep. Apparently spiders like wet, moist environments. And what's more wet & moist than a person's mouth? (Okay, get your mind out of the gutter, kids.)

I've eaten my fair share of other bugs too. Gnats, flies, and maybe even a cockroach or two (and so have you if you've ever eaten in any public restaurant). But if I can help it, I try to minimize my yearly bug intake.

I hate bugs. Never liked them, never will. Those creepy crawly legs and crunchy shells are what I hate the most.

I like to say that I've been traumatized by childhood experiences and that's why I relish squashing them now, until they're a juicy little spot on the wall. Before you edge your chair away, let me explain these murderous rages of mine.

It all started when I was wee high to my Daddy's knee. I wasn't but a little boy—impressionable, eager, and full of wonder. And it was with great wonder that I poked at that bee's nest.

Now what little boy has never done that, huh? Answer me that. None, right? Thought so.

So poke away at the bee's nest I did. I even followed the poking with a few stones. What followed that is utterly and painfully predictable: little boy runs from angry bees, angry bees sting little boy, little boy vows a lifetime of revenge.

Some may argue that this sting was justified, that the bees were only guarding their nest, and that this little boy learned a lesson. It is important for me to provide a motive for this. Up above my childhood bedroom lived a hive of carpenter bees.

Carpenter bees are as large as bumblebees, which, to the eyes of a young and impressionable little boy, are about as large as a Buick Regal. Those horrid monstrosities would often burrow a hole into my room and buzz around as I shuddered under my blanket.

I can still hear that awful buzzing right now. Buzz buzz buzz. Awful!

Traumatizing as that was, that was nothing compared to the louder, more fearsome buzzing of the cicadas. These terrifying beasts harbored a forceful air-speed velocity that, when slammed in the chest, was quite noticeable. And slammed in the chest I was, many a time.

Perhaps the most harrowing experience came when I, still a little wide-eyed boy, was wading in the pool in our backyard. Our peach tree stood right near the pool and provided endless scrumptious delights all summer long. (If you've never tasted a fresh peach in your life, you've never truly lived.)

The peach tree was also a favorite resting and molting spot for cicadas. Although cicadas are mostly harmless (no stingers or claws or fangs), their mere presence was enough to send shivers through my skin.

They buzzed about like WWII bombers. Bigger and louder than carpenter bees, they were the granddaddy of scary bugs.

You can imagine, then, the potential for catastrophe by having a potent molting ground (the peach tree) next to a popular summer pastime (the pool).

One fine sunny day, I dove into the pool with carefree abandon. The cool water washed away the burning sun. All seemed right in the world. Until I resurfaced and reached behind me to scratch an itch I had on my back.

And what did my fingers encounter? A hard, crispy cicada perched on my back with its legs dug deep into my skin. It charged its wings and buzzed wildly when I touched it. For a few agonizing seconds, I envisioned a monstrous cicada with blood-red eyes swinging its scorpion-like tail to deliver a fatal blow of poison right into my spine.

Of course, none of that really happened. Instead, it flew away, probably more freaked out than I was. But still, you know how impressionable little boys are.

Those were the two most perceptible events. There were others, many others, involving cockroaches, beetles, and wasps, but I think I've relived enough traumatic experiences for one day.

So you see, my childhood was plagued by killer bugs. Killer bugs with creepy crawly legs and crunch shells. They've been waiting all my life for the right moment to dismember me. I know it, I just know it. And that is why I must squash their crunchy bodies with my shoes.

Well, okay, so maybe they can't dismember me. Maybe they have more to fear of me than I do of them.

But still. I hate bugs.

. . .

Do you like bugs?