Spiders

No, not those web-crawling bots that Google uses to traverse the depths of the World Wide Web that you might have expected to find in a posting on a blog about web analytics. No, my friends, I'm talking about our eight-eyed, eight-legged, fuzzy little friends. These energetic guys are extremely useful to mankind, but are unfortunately almost universally feared and frequently find themselves at the center of awkward social situations.

"Oh, sure," you say. "Other people might be prejudiced against spiders, but not me! Why, I would never hate any species based solely on the number of its legs! These kinds of things happened in times past, but not today! We are progressive. In fact, I had a spider over for dinner just the other night!"

But let's be honest. Arachnobigotry still exists. Do you ever see eyeglasses with eight lenses? No! They don't make them! Are there community action groups aimed at promoting the health and well-being of spiders? No! If a spider came to ask you for a job, would you hire the ladybug instead, justifying your decision by convincing yourself that "the ladybug had better people skills anyway?" And how many spiders have you ever REALLY tried to get to know? How can you sleep at night?

That being said, I hate the nasty little blighters. Well, I did hate them. Their eight skinny legs allow them to move just a little too fast for my comfort. Let me explain how things unfolded.

You see, it all started when I was just a little boy, maybe 3 or 4 years old. My grandparents lived in California, and I think the hot humid air made for some gigantic bugs. My favorite of these bugs were the Daddy Long Legs (Pholcus phalangioides), a spider which, as EVERY school child knows, is the MOST POISONOUS SPIDER IN THE WORLD! Luckily, their fangs are short enough (0.25 mm) that they can't penetrate human skin (0.1 mm). Oh, wait. (Check out Myth Busters.)

Anyway, I don't remember having a problem with spiders at that young age. Then something awful must have happened, because the rest of my life is characterized by a general malevolence towards them. I really don't know why.

Maybe it's because they tried to kill me.

For a while when I was growing up, I lived in the basement of our home. There were always spiders in the basement, but nothing that ever concerned me too much. Just little "garden variety" spiders, who were probably just strolling around leisurely, looking for their next insect meal. I killed them all the same out of principle, because I had proclaimed a very stern "you move, you die" policy in my bedroom, and I couldn't afford to set a bad precedent by allowing some things to move and not to die. Such was the agreement I had with all things creepy-crawly, and such was the status quo for a good, long time

Then one day, a mean-looking, thuggish gang of hobo spiders (Tegenaria agrestis) wearing full leather biker attire rolled into town on their harleys. They took up camp in a woodpile outside of my neighbor's home. One day she went outside and disturbed their woodpile. They bit her, laughed at her, and sent her away with a large necrotic lesion on her leg. That was a mistake. She called the local news station and immediately declared her personal crusade against the hobo spiders. She even started a website, www.hobospiderlady.org (which unfortunately no longer exists), from which she sold hobo spider traps and poisons to people all across ... town.

Fleeing this unexpected retaliation, the hobos began looking for other homes. One of them happened to be mine. I first noticed encountered them one night as I was studying, lying flat on my stomach on the floor in my basement room. As I was reading, I briefly heard the sound of something akin to a miniature typewriter, clicking and clacking at a rate of about 120 words per minute. I looked to see what was causing such an intriguing noise and noticed a very large, brown, octopedal visitor heading my way, tap dancing on my papers that were scattered across the floor. I summarily dismissed this uninvited guest with a whack of my shoe. Drawing one final breath, he wheezed, "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE..."

I would later find out that this meant, "You dirty bag of scum. You may expect that my brother will avenge my death, as will no less than a veritable legion of his venomous offspring."

The promised vengeance was swift. I was soon killing several of these guys per week. One day, I came home from classes and opened the door to my room, to find what I can only assume was a hobo spider political rally taking place on the floor. There was a quiet stillness as approximately 782 blinking, beady eyes were riveted on me. Awkward. A number of them ran for safety in the far reaches of my room--under the bed, under the dresser--in every place where they knew I couldn't get to them easily. One intrepid soul ran menacingly towards me as fast as his eight long legs would take him. Yeah, he died. I ran to get the vacuum cleaner and a flashlight and moved all the furniture in my room, sucking these little guys up with fiendish delight.

Later, I decided it was time to be proactive about the situation. I took a caulking gun and sealed each corner of my room, and every conceivable nook and cranny through which they might be able to enter.

For quite a while it appeared that I had restored order to my realm, until one day I noticed a spider on the wall while I was sitting at my desk studying. I looked at him closely, once more ready to dole out justice and judgment, but had the strange impression enter my mind, "This little guy's not dangerous. Tell him to leave."

I informed him that once he had rested a bit he would need to find another place to hang out. He stuck around for a day or two, and I never saw him again. Moreover, I never saw ANY spiders in that room again. I think he must have gone and told his spider buddies that I'm not completely despicable after all.

So, I guess all I'm trying to say is next time you see a spider, consider getting a cup and a paper and taking him outside. Unless he's a hobo spider. Then terminate him with extreme prejudice.