In the war against skeeters, victory is not assured

It’s on. The war. The one between myself and the mosquitoes.

So far this summer, the mosquitoes have been winning. I’ll occasionally assassinate one of the bloodthirsty little vermin, but for each bug that falls, 100 leap in to take his place. 

Or rather, her place. Only female mosquitoes suck blood and bite people. The males live on flower nectar and listen to a lot of music by The Grateful Dead. I will not comment on the significance of this fact with regard to male/female relationships in general.

Regardless of gender, mosquitoes are nature’s way of getting back at humanity for global warming, deforestation and the music of Justin Bieber.  That doesn’t mean we have to take it lying down.

I know I’m not. Not any more.

At heart I’m a pacifist. I maintain a live and let live attitude, even when it comes to nature’s least likable creatures; bats, snakes, mice, ex-wives … if they leave me alone, I don’t go out of my way to bother them.

But this year mosquitoes seem more intent on world domination than Kim Jong-un, and they’ve been at it far longer than the stubby Korean dictator with the bad haircut. Though mosquitoes haven’t developed a nuclear weapons program, they’re at least as annoying as Jong-un.

For me the war started last weekend as I went about the annual business of setting up my lawn furniture, backyard canopy and tiki lamps. I no sooner got into my backyard than a horde of mosquitoes (I consider anything more than a dozen a horde) descended on me out of a clear, blue sky like WWII kamikazes. 

Without regard for their own personal safety, they covered my arms, neck and face with a blanket of questing skeeter proboscis (proboscises? probosci? — whatever the plural of mosquito snoots is). With a wave of my mighty human hand I killed dozens, but more flew in, wave after wave after ceaseless wave; like zombies in a George Romero flick, they just kept on coming at me.

I was hopelessly outnumbered. Six or seven skeeters stuck to me as I escaped into the relative safety of my apartment. These I killed out of hand, but not before they’d all feasted on my blood, which based on all evidence, must be the tastiest blood in the county.

Then yesterday afternoon I struck back with a ferocity rivaling Luke Skywalker’s blasting of the Death Star (non-nerds try to stick with me here).

Armed with every available anti-mosquito weapon known to science, I reentered my bug infested yard. First, I fogged the area with some chemical that — had it been used in Vietnam — could have changed the outcome of that war. Mosquitoes dropped by the hundreds.

Then I filled the tiki lamps with a citronella-based oil and lit ‘em up. I also lit three mosquito repellent coils and set them at strategic locations around the patio.

Finally, I doused my body with a spray made up of 45 percent DEET. I’m not exactly sure what DEET is, but it burns like battery acid, smells like sin itself, and is not recommended for use on children under the age of 75.

I opened a cold beer, sat down in my most comfortable lawn chair, and surveyed the carnage. I couldn’t actually see the dead skeeters covering the lawn, but I knew they were there, thousands of ‘em, their creepy, little spindle legs pointed skyward.

Sure, the still-foggy air reeked like the aftermath of an Agent Orange bombardment and the smoke from the tiki lamps and burning coils made it difficult to see the lake without squinting. 

But humanity had triumphed over mosquito-dom. 

For about 25 minutes. Then the skeeters started coming back; first one, then two — scouts, I guess — then the horde.

My sofa’s more comfortable than the lawn chair anyway. And I can always use my patio again come October.

Contact Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com or read more Reality Check online at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com.