Subject: Re: Snails

From: [email-masked] (Fellwalker)
Date: Wed, 8 Mar 1995 06:26:40 GMT

Alan Fryer ([email-masked]) wrote:

    A lovely and literate account of his epic battle with hordes of 
gastropod mollusks.

   Alan, you don't live in San Jose (Northern CA...snail city), do you? ;)

--Max
(now in San Diego, where the snails go topless)
-- 
--  ...with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes... <[email-masked]>

---

From: [email-masked] (Alan Fryer)
Date: 7 Mar 1995 19:05:34 GMT

Late last night whilst I was mentally struggling with the decision 
of either watching the declining dregs of popular American 
culture on TV, or perhaps doing absolutely anything productive, 
I heard a car alarm go off. After tolerating ten minutes of the 
radical roar, I finally bolted my carcass off the couch to 
investigate the situation. It it seems that Mad Tim, my neighbor 
the rocket scientist, accidently set off the alarm and conveniently 
locked his keys inside the car. He looked like a demented 
butterfly fluttering around the car, alternately cursing, cajoling 
and pleading with the door locks and the business end of a coat 
hanger. As usual, rationality and sober analyis won the day; Mad 
Tim's Significant Other became so incensed with the handling of 
entire mess that she waddled out of bed, got her keys out, and in 
one fell swoop opened the car door, turned off the alarm and 
publicly emasculated Mad Tim. Pondering the extremes and 
vagaries of life once the local entertainment show was over, I 
decided that the ability to melt into the shadows was a virtue, 
and allowed Mad Tim the honor to lick his pyschic wounds in 
private. Returning to my door, quietly lost in thought, I was 
disturbed from my solitude. I discovered that my driveway was 
covered with, as I thought for a moment, "brown presents from 
the local dog population. How lovely, perhaps I can return the 
favor in a generous fashion", was my initial reaction. Somewhat 
disgusted, I bend down to inspect the objects, and was 
pleasantly shocked to find that indeed the brown pellets were in 
fact the indigenous snails, coming out for a light snack on my 
recently planted plants and bushes. To be frank, although I 
should be flattered that another planetary lifeform enjoys my 
handiwork, I am less than thrilled to see punctures big enough to 
throw a large cat through, monsterous holes eaten in the leaves 
of some rare herbals. I promptly screamed my battle cry and did 
an tepid Irish jig on the mollusks from hell. The damn things are 
slugs with shells. The slimy ground was irridescent with the gore 
of the fight. There were so many and I am so few. Motivated to 
root out the evil host, I started to rummage through the bushes 
and plants with a flashlight, picking whole families up with a 
single scoop. Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, all were 
disposed with. The worst part was not the slime but dealing with 
the high pitched whining. The suckers actually starting 
screaming and foaming at the mouth once I picked them up. And 
then, just as fast as it started, it was over. The carnage was 
complete, broken shells littered the concrete. A busy nasty night 
was over.