Moths: another winged scourge


If you’ve read my columns over the past year or so, you may have noticed that I have openly talked about my hatred of bats and mosquitoes. Weird, I know, since bats eat mosquitoes.

Lately, though, another winged nuisance had been tormenting me, and I’ve taken about all I can tolerate.

I’ll make my point clear early on, so there’s no doubt as to where I stand — moths are terrible creatures who serve no purpose other than as bat food (so if there were fewer moths, there’s be fewer bats, right?). I have never been fond of moths, or any winged animal now that I think about it, but until this summer I don’t believe I have ever been pushed to the brink by these wool-eaters.

Truthfully, it’s probably not all the moths’ fault. Earlier this year, before moths started infiltrating my house, garage and yard, I watched an old standup comedy special. In this particular performance, comedian Dana Gould talked about a time a moth flew into his ear, sending him to the emergency room.

While his story was hilarious, I must admit I also found it frightening. I see these creeps gathering on my screen door, circling the lights in my garage, and lately a few have found their way to the TV screen. En route to any of these spots, they seem to have no problem fluttering toward me, no doubt attempting to burrow their way into my ear.

Fortunately most of them seem to be on the lower end of the insect IQ spectrum, and are too dumb, deaf or distracted to notice me sneaking up on them to lower the right hand of justice.

These moths are simply annoying and a danger only to my ears, but their extra-large cousins are what really scare me. I have had to dispatch three moths in my garage this year that have been about the size of the palm of my hand. I swear my friends and I mistook the first one we saw for a hummingbird.

I don’t know if these moths were nibbling on Ryan Braun’s gym clothes or what. All I know is that “Mothra vs. Godzilla” instantly came to mind. It took three of us to off this thing, with the final blow coming via my sandal, causing an explosion of some disgusting green goo — delightful, I know.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe I’m the problem. Perhaps these bugs aren’t evil and I’m just paranoid. Then again, you don’t see me running laps around a light bulb, clinging to a screen door or gnawing on your favorite shirt.

No, the moths are the problem. They’re the unsexy butterflies of the bug world, and they have two options. One, stay outside — far away from me. Two, fly toward the white light from which there is no coming back.


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