I looked at the empty cans of Olde English malt liquor lined up on the picnic table and thought, sweet Jesus, the neighbors are going to think we hosted the shittiest party of all time. Please don’t let any humans see this mess. If you have never heard of Olde English, count yourself lucky. A cold Olde English manages to capture the stench and taste of a five-day old beer left to its own devices in the summer sun. Yes, I tried a small sip. It was a mistake. Thankfully, my rager of a party did not involve humans drinking the foul brew. Rather the cans were the result of another springtime celebration that I would like to call Death to Slugs!. The party was just getting started when, as I poured beer in a crusty old yogurt container, I accidentally brushed an unopened Olde English can, knocking it to ground where it promptly exploded and started spinning around a like a crazed puppy chasing its own tail. Now this is my kinda fun! I thought. I inhaled that stale scent deeply as the spray flew, cheered at the image of my slimy bloated enemies drowning in their dehydrated pee-colored bath.
I placed the slug-traps around the garden, pausing only briefly to lament the loss of slug-chewed beet and kale sprouts. But I soon grinned like a malicious leprechaun as I dug traps into place, muttering, “you’ve got it coming, you little bastards”. While awaiting the slugs’ inevitable demise, I gathered the used cans as quietly as possible, sidling through the front gate where I looked furtively back and forth, hoping no neighbors stood by to witness my shame as I put the good Olde English cans discretely in the recycling bin with only a hint of tell-tale aluminum tinkle. And god forbid anyone did see, I tried to give off the ol’ I swear it wasn’t me who drank these vibe. I think I made it through the gauntlet ok. Now it’s time to wait.