Damn fruitflies. The house is full of goddamn fruitflies.
I mean, there's a reason they do genetic work with these fuckers. They'll breed on you. A fruit fly generation is eleven days. You can go from Joe Average Fruit Fly to Mutant Fruit Fly With Legs On His Damn Head in no time. The time from the fruit fly Moses to the fruit fly space shuttle is less than four years. You dig that? Fruit fly Moses came down off the mountaintop in March of 2000 with his multifaceted eyeballs all aglow and bearing the law of the Fruit Fly God. By now they've long since watched the fruit fly space shuttle blow up over fruit fly Texas all tragic-like, and moved on, and developed fusion power, and landed on Mars, and colonized the whole damn universe with their evil fruit fly civilization.
Or they would have. If they had, you now, brains, and opposable thumbs and science and frozen orange juice.
But still: they mourned the loss of a lone fruit fly pilot who got mashed by giants during his flyover mission on the Second Floor.
Or, they will.
Once I mash that sucker.
Mash!
Damn insects.
I'll get 'em. Fruit Fly God or not, I'll get 'em.
