Ah, those good old Cape May days… by Jackson D’Catur
I read somewhere (or rather, my faithful manservant Kitchener read to me from somewhere: I have no patience for holding a book or newspaper and passing my eyes back and forth over the pages endlessly, and much prefer to be read to. I think that stems from my formative years when Ma D’Catur would read me a bedtime story from The Big Book Of Instructional Lessons For Feral Boys, a tome that was heavy on discipline and indeed had as a bookmark a 12” leather tawse that the lady used to slap across my bare bottom if she thought I was paying less than full attention.
Thankfully, unlike my old pal Lawrence of Arabia, my experiences with corporal punishment did not lead to a lifelong fetish for such brutality, but they did reinforce in me a need to be read to, and to never take my eyes off the face of the reader whilst they are talking to me)… anyway, I read somewhere that smart fellows in a lab somewhere have bred mosquitoes that are immune to the microbe (or some other such term; virus, possibly, or bacteria, or pox) that allows them to infect us with malaria. I applaud such clever-dickiness, but think rather that they are missing the point, those eggheads.
For we need nothing more than for every living mosquito on this planet to be exterminated. And I don’t just say this because of the giant mosquito that once terrorized Cape May (regular readers of my accurate and historically-correct memoirs in these pages will remember it was finally dispatched with fire from an anti-aircraft battery on the roof).
No, I say this because they are cowardly little blighters who deserve no mercy. They are vicious, unreasoning, sneaky and will play havoc with your ankles if they creep up unnoticed. But enough of the citizens of Wildwood, and back to mosquitoes.
I have tried all of the traditional and scientific remedies: I have burned enough incense to smoke out India, I have set up huge buzzing carbon dioxide emitters that draw the beasts and electrocute them, I have sprayed myself with so much DEET that I grew extra fingers, yet nothing worked. Even the four-square-mile mosquito net I had lowered over the city by helicopter didn’t work, as the beasts had themselves mailed to addresses inside and swarmed out of packets and parcels when they were opened.
No, dear friends, this calls for something more drastic. I will say no more for now, but counsel you to stock up on dark glasses, bottled water and iodine tablets. And don’t look up.
Until next week, I bid you adieu.