W - Wigging Out

I was sitting on the couch trying to figure out what to write for "W". Then it happened. Someone, or something, tapped me on my right shoulder. I thought this was strange since I was the only person in the room. Anyone coming in from another room would have entered from my left and tapped my left shoulder. I casually looked to my right to see what was there. Then I wigged out.

Sitting on my shoulder, looking pleased with itself and obviously contemplating evil intentions, was a yellow jacket. Clearly, one of us was going to die. Being a man, I responded in the appropriate way.  First, to my everlasting pride, I prevented the girly scream that wanted to erupt from the very depths of my soul from escaping. Then, I thumped the yellow jacket in the face. Hard. It may not seem manly, but I guarantee it felt manly to that flying denizen of the darkest pits of hell when my fingernail intersected his face at high speed.

My next step, after several deep breaths to calm my nerves and lower my heart rate below 200, was to quickly find something lethal to send the demon back from whence it came. Enter the shoe. I proceeded - in a manly way - to beat that thing into the floor with reckless abandon. After ten hyper-violent expressions of my displeasure, I checked for remains.

It was still moving. There could only be one explanation. It was the undead. That's right. Zombie yellow jacket. It made complete sense. The reason it was on my shoulder was to get easy access to my head and thus, my brain.

After further examination, it is quite possible that the soft sole on the shoe combined with the thickness of the plush carpet prevented my vigorous application of percussive justice from achieving the desired effect. So I did what any red-blooded male with a generous infusion of adrenaline would. I flushed it down the toilet. Asta la vista,  ya brain-eating hellion!