Stewed

     This morning I was talking to a bug.  It was a fly.  Actually, it was a huge ma-honkin fly that was about the size of the end of my thumb.  

     It was buzzing around the window over the kitchen sink.  I thought about getting the flyswatter and putting it out of its misery. I thought about the huge mess it was going to make on the glass.
I said to the fly, "If you would just calm down, I'll take you outside."

     The fly immediately stopped buzzing and stood perfectly still.  I looked at it, waiting for it to start its mindless frenzy, trying to get to the light beyond the glass.  It never moved.  I walked to the cabinet and retrieved a shot glass then picked up a piece of note paper laying on the counter.  The fly was still waiting.

     I placed the shot glass over the fly, slid the paper under the glass and headed to the back door.  Once outside, I lifted the glass and the fly took off, headed east.  It didn't get very far and then turned back and hovered in front of my face.  In its tiny bug voice, it said, "Ya know what's ironic?"

     "No, what?" I answered, not giving much thought to striking up a conversation with an insect.

     Still hovering and buzzing, the fly spoke again.  "Irony is getting bit by a spider while cleaning out a closet for a yard sale two days before winning the lottery and three days before dying from the spider bite."  The fly flew around my head before heading east again.  I watched until its form was lost in the distance.

     An encounter with a philosophical fly, just my luck.