Again, Kansas gets a bad rap. I drive all the way across Kansas yet can count the bug splats on my windshield. I cross the Colorado state line and within a couple miles, BLAM! Buckets and buckets of bug guts! Disgusting! At one point I was sure that little droplets of egg whites were falling from the sky. There were even bug splats on the side windows. What’s up with that?! All I can figure is that the bugs were so thick they were ricocheting off the passing cars!
Now I ask you, is that any way to welcome visitors to our lovely state? I say NAY!
Now I ask you, is that any way to welcome visitors to our lovely state? I say NAY!
I was hoping to pass a biker to compare my now opaque windshield with his helmet visor, but didn’t see a single Harley for hundreds of miles. Those guys are pretty smart you know.
So I get to Limon and stop at the first gas station I can find. All around are cars lined up buying one gallon of gas, just so they can use the windshield cleaner thingies. What are those things called anyway....oh squeegees (apparently bug scrapers in eastern Colorado).
I get out of the car, and the bugs and mosquitoes are zeroing in on me in attack formation, wave after wave. Unbelievable! It was like a coordinated assault. First the kamikazes on the highway, then the hand to hand combat on the ground. I did my best to fend them off, got the bulk of the bug mucus wiped off the car and jumped back in to safety.
Get this, the entire rest of the way to Denver, nary a knat splat on the windshield. But there was one little rascal that managed to sneak in through the open door as I was getting in and kept whizzing past my ear to guess where? The WINDSHIELD!
“HEL-LOW” I yelled at the little flying mucus bag. “That’s a windshield!” He didn’t care. Seemed he knew that as long as he and the windshield were both moving at the same 75 mph, he had nothing to fear. Try as I may, I could not reach the pest to swat him. I swear I saw him sticking his tongue out at me.
Or maybe he was just distraught at the carnage that had occurred at that very spot just minutes before and was trying to come to grips with it by hanging out at the scene of the crime. I mean, after all, I had dispatched millions of his little cousins to heaven just a few miles back. Randy Alcorn says all God’s little critters go to heaven, so I decided maybe I should make peace with this little guy. He may be the only one of his kind not holding a grudge against me when we meet again in the hereafter. (tongue firmly in cheek).
Anyway, I lost track of him somewhere near the airport. Good riddance I thought.
Anyway, I lost track of him somewhere near the airport. Good riddance I thought.
I get home and as I’m unpacking I notice a little itchy bump on my arm. I look down and sure enough, one lonely mosquito bite. Somewhere I heard a faint buzzing that sounded an awful lot like laughter. Touche my little winged adversary. Next time you’re mine!
