la cucuracha hic

The alcohol has become less effective. Not for me, I hasten to add. For me it still manages to wrap me in a warm shroud of relaxation and help me ignore whatever has annoyed me during the day. I mean effective against my cockroaches. It used to dispatch them quickly and evoke terror. Now their whole attitude to ethanol has changed.

I decided to embark on another Buffy-type killing session today in my kitchen. I entered, spray in hand, and soon located a large cockroach taunting me from its vantage point on the tap. I approached. It stood its ground. Usually they squitter when they hear me, apart from Eric the Red, King of the Cockroaches, with whom I have reached an agreement. I will not kill him. He will remain at a distance from my toothbrush. The tap cockroach simply waited for me to zap it with 100% pure alcohol. As I did so, I noticed that suddenly, from nowhere, another dozen cockroaches of all ages were approaching me, each one tempting me to send them to cockroach Tir na Nog with a quick spurt of alcohol. I did so, and more came. I suddenly realised. I have created a whole generation of alcoholic cockroaches which relishes the thought of passing on inebriated into the next world.
The exterminator will be here soon. He will eliminate my cockroaches with obnoxious chemicals and remove them from my life permanently. In a perverse way, I shall miss them. They have been part of my life for some time now. I will try to trap Eric before the exterminator comes. I will release him in a local park. He can take my toothbrush with him.