Farm Flies 2: Revenge of the Fruit Fly

"I don't know why I ever come in here. The flies get the best of everything." - Otis Criblecoblis

Ah, yet another summer of shortened fuses thanks to my arch nemesis the Farm Fly, and this year, they seem to have quadrupled their numbers.  Once again I have boldly stepped onto Farm Fly turf, and having learned from my missteps during last year's battles, I am now strapped with a wider whacking device (See: two rolled up issues of News 4U), a lighter, and a travel size bottle of Garnier Fructis hairspray. Surely they don't stand a chance, right?

Wrong.  These rotten bastards have not only increased their numbers, they seem to have gone through some type of intensive combat training combining the brutality of Jiu-Jitsu with the speed of Formula 1 racing. The larger flies have noticeably altered their attack strategy from the previous year.  Instead of using the Kamikaze style of fighting they had become so annoyingly known for, the large flies have been hanging back, allowing armies of Fruit Flies to swarm any given area with unparalleled chaos in only a matter of seconds.  Compare this to the amount of time it takes for me to go from "holy shit, flies!" to striking my lighter and letting the hairspray rip, it's easy to see that we've got a bit of a problem here, folks.  

Equally as disturbing as the Farm Fly's change in battle tactics is their change in dietary preferences.  It's not so much a change as it is an addition, as this year, no food is safe from instantaneous attack.  Due to their massive numbers (which put the populations of China and India to shame), a 20 second skirmish with these minuscule monsters can result in the loss of 12 blackberries, an entire peach, or, as was the case during one of the more intense battles recently, HALF of a rather large tomato.  The devastation is so horrifying when these soulless fiends find an unsupervised cantaloupe that I dare not even speak of it here (RIP Molly McMelon).

I have made headway in learning the origin of these Fruit Flies though, because I can hear buzzing choruses of "Za Rodinu" (For Motherland) swirling around my head as I desperately swat the air in vain.  This leads me to believe the ferocious hunger of the Fruit Fly was born during a long, hard winter spent in the Siberian shithole called Novosibirsk.  Known for vodka so strong that it often doubles as tank fuel and temperatures that can give a polar bear hypothermia, Novosibirsk is exactly the kind of gritty and impoverished place that produces talented fighters looking for ways to avoid experiencing love.  My trusty mag-whacker and poor-mans flamethrower are going to ensure that they are unequivocally successful in that pursuit.   

Gone is the beauty and appreciation for the Farm Fly's aeronautical grace.  What was once a marvel of physical impossibility is now, simply put, a monumental pain in the ass.  Where there is one, there are ten someplace else, thus engaging me in an infinite game of cat-and-mouse that often leaves me more bloody and bruised than the flies.  Another impossible factor to deal with is the rapid rate at which the Fruit Fly breeds. Rabbits, dogs, the Octomom- all pale in comparison to the frequency of birth and amount of offspring these Commie pricks produce.   

At the moment, I fear I am outflanked and outnumbered.  My limited talent for espionage and total inability to refrain from cursing loudly during stalking sessions has delivered me to an area of Hell known in Souther Indiana as "Summer".  With another chapter of this war in the books,  I am reminded of those who came before me, and the sacrifices they have made during their valiant efforts to protect produce.  "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. For he today that sheds his blood with me, shall be my brother; be ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition," Shakespeare wrote, and with the way people smelled in the 17th century, I'm certain he must've known a thing or two about fly flagellation.

My condition has yet to be gentled, but with each successful eradication, I find a moments peace in the satisfaction of fighting for such a noble cause.  The war may never be over, and assuredly, more produce will be lost.  But, as long as I can continue to Google ways of inducing mass genocide on Farm Flies, the epic saga of Man versus Farm Fly will rage onward.