The Fly and I - An Epic Domestic Drama

 

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If you prefer, you can also listen to this information on my Podcast at: https://creators.spotify.com/pod/show/norbert-gostischa/episodes/The-Fly-and-I---An-Epic-Domestic-Drama-e338o5q

I thought I saw a fly,

And if I catch it, I’m sure it’s gonna die.

A fly in my house just shouldn’t be seen.

I don’t really mean to be mean…

But when it buzzed near my morning brew,

And dive-bombed my nose like a kamikaze crew,

Something inside me just snapped in half—

I turned from Grandpa to a fly-swatting giraffe.

It circled my cereal, danced on my spoon,

And dared to land on my favorite cartoon.

I flailed with a dishcloth, missed by a mile—

It hovered and mocked me, wearing a smile.

I armed myself with a rolled-up mag,

Charged like a knight with a weaponized rag.

The fly? It dodged like a Matrix stunt—

Did a backflip and seemed to enjoy the hunt.

I tiptoed in socks, held my breath for the kill…

Then it flew to the wall and just sat there—still.

I crept up slowly, silent as a mime—

Then WHAP! Missed again, for the seventy-sixth time.

“Oh, you wanna play?” I hissed through my teeth,

Chased it upstairs and down underneath.

It zipped past the cat, who gave a brief pounce—

Then flopped back asleep. (So much for ounce per ounce.)

I threw on goggles, gloves, and a cap—

This was no longer a bug; this was a trap.

A military op. Operation: Sky Raid.

One man. One fly. One slap to be made.

I sprayed lemon, vinegar, lavender too,

Tried to go natural—no chemicals, just goo.

But it soaked in the oils like it was a spa day,

Then strutted on my sandwich like it wanted to stay.

I consulted Google, YouTube, and a priest—

This houseguest from Beelzebub had never ceased!

I built a trap with honey and hope,

But it flew past laughing—was that a nope?

It landed on my remote, changed the TV,

Turned on “National Geographic: Insects Gone Free.”

It sipped on my wife's soda with flair and finesse—

That’s when I knew… I was under duress.

I lit citronella. I waved incense.

It did the cha-cha on my garden fence.

I called pest control. They laughed on the line.

"Sir, it’s one fly—you’ll be just fine."

I’ve lost sleep. I’ve skipped meals. I’ve cried in the tub.

It buzzed near my ear and whispered, “What's Up?”

This ain’t just a fly. It’s got an agenda.

A pint-sized punk with the flair of a panda.

But then came the day—I saw it land still.

I raised my hand with Shakespearean will.

“To squish or not to squish?” I cried to the sky.

But too late! It flew—right into my eye.

I stumbled, I screamed, I danced a mad jig—

And fell face-first in a bowl of potato sprig.

When I looked up, dizzy, what did I see?

The fly… on the ceiling… flipping off me.

I gave up that day. Waved a white napkin.

The fly did a victory lap over the trash bin.

We made a pact—he'd stay out of my jam,

And I’d stop calling him "Buzzdamn."

Now we’re roommates. He pays no rent.

Eats half my food but seems content.

And me? I’ve grown fond of his evening whine…

It’s soothing, like jazz… after a glass of wine.

So if you see a fly and plan to attack,

Think twice—it may fight right back.

Not every buzz means war or doom.

Sometimes it’s just company in an empty room.