You know what I hate?
But I have a new hate in my life, friends. Slugs. They haven’t supplanted mocking birds at the top of my list (yet), but as Stephen Colbert would say, they’re on notice.
I was hanging out on the front porch Monday night, talking to my mom on the phone, when I noticed one of the slimey sons of bitches munching on my calibrachoa.
Then I spotted another one. Two slugs = Threat Level Orange.
I can’t allow this. I won’t live like this! Those slimey bastards don’t get to treat my plants as an all night buffet. So I got my gardening shears out and snipped off the branches that the slugs were on, and let the leaves fall to the ground. I zeroed in on the leaves that the slugs were still clinging to, and stomped on them (slug side down, of course – I’m not an animal).
“Take that, assholes,” I muttered under my breath as I slid my shoes off and returned inside.
The next morning my mom sent me an email with some tips for getting rid of slugs. Suggestions included salt (of course), beer traps, and sandpaper. According to the article she sent, slugs won’t crawl across sandpaper for fear of ripping their bellies open. Oh yeah, that sounds about right. And I guess they like beer as much as the next guy, and will drown themselves to get a sip.
Stale beer, people. This makes me hate them more.
So when darkness fell last night, visions of a slug massacre were dancing in my head. I wasn’t going to waste any beer on those assholes, and I didn’t have any sandpaper. So salt it was. I went out to the front porch armed with garden shears and a can of Morton’s. I spotted the first of the enemy right away.
Snip. He was on the ground. Flip. The leaf was right-side up (no more messing around). Sprinkle. Agony for him, glee for me.
I felt a twinge of conscience – was I any better than those horrible boys who pluck the wings off of flies and burn ants with magnifying glasses? How could I sit there and watch, nay, enjoy the death throes of another living creature?
But then that bastard tried to make a run for it, salt-sprinkled as he was, through a crack in the boards that make up the porch. So I COVERED him in salt. I positively mounded it on top of him.
“Not so fast, sucker. Where do you think you’re going?”
The next 20 minutes are a blur. I flicked and salted probably 5 more slugs, just off of one container. I went inside to call my mom and report on my progress. Basking in the glow of her approval, I ventured back outside to survey the carnage. Slugs lay writhing in pools of goo and salt. Life was good.
Then I spotted a particularly long slug making his way up the side of the container.
“Oh, what have we got here? I bet you think you’re a real Slick Rick, huh? Take THAT!”
I flung a handful of salt at him, knocking him from the side of the pot.
“How ’bout a little fire, Scarecrow?” – another fistful of salt rained down upon him.
Perhaps by this weekend my blood lust will be sated and I’ll be satisfied with ringing my containers with sandpaper (“the roughest grit you can find, honey” suggested my mom). Until then – slugs beware. So help you GOD if I find you in my hostas.