Not to be Confused with Mojito

Do you think that if a genie or some kind of forest gnome approached you and granted three wishes you’d opt for the eradication of mosquitos as one of your selections? I would. Obviously several species of bird and a few other animals down the chain would become extinct immediately, having suddenly lost a major food source, but still – I hate the little fuckers and I want them wiped off the face of the Earth for good like the DoDo.

World peace, fame and fortune are all well and good, but the gnomes are usually sticklers about the three wish limit. So mosquito extinction, fame and fortune would be the order of my special wish day. We hosted a Spanish exchange student named Maria for a couple of months back in high school and I remember her and her friends were horrified at the mere concept of whiny little bastard insects that not only suck your blood but replace it with a poison which renders you itchy for many days afterwards. I even remember the funny way they pronounced the word: mossh-kee-toes – always with a disgusted grimace on their faces. Apparently they don’t exist in Spain – correct me if I’m wrong. And then send me an immigration document.

What a glorious thought. A world without mosquitoes. Depending on the time of day I can be surrounded by 10 of the horrible things about 30 seconds after walking out my front door. If I’m trying to get some work done I usually lather up in repellent, take my chances and deal with the resulting bite pains and neck scratching. I took a good look at my arms tonight while sitting at my desk deciding what to write about and realized I look like I’ve got some sort of pioneer smallpox. I have been bitten so many times since the snow melted and the bastard bugs appeared that I hardly even notice it anymore. I’m like one of those rattlesnake preachers: “Repent or face eternal toe knuckle itchiness!”