Slugs. You’ve seen them — terrestrial gastropod mollusks, mushy blobs of goo that slime around, eating hostas, strawberries, and everything in between.
The slug-eaten strawberries filled with ant tunnels and slug snot told me that I was at war with the slugs. So … I ordered a Classic Snail Trap. I was enthused until I opened the package and read the instructions — the trap would only work if the chamber was filled with BEER. Beer traps are a popular way of killing slugs. Slugs have some of the same problems with beer as some of my neighbors who are lured into beer traps. Slugs fall into the beer and drown. My neighbors just disconnect their frontal lobes and have to be driven home.
Shakespeare poses the question, "To be, or not to be..." concluding that it is conscience that makes Hamlet lose the courage it would take to commit suicide. For me, I lost courage facing the fear of being seen buying beer. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. This fear made me keep the slug trap in the drawer until one hot August afternoon when I discovered that the slugs had turned the hostas into Swiss cheese. It was a war. Brushing my fears and conscience aside, the traps were readied and I headed off to buy a case of beer -- something I had never done before, nor since. Still, I did not want to be confused with the real hypocrites who actually drink the beer they buy but don't want their image to be tarnished if they were spotted by their snoopy neighbors. Circling slowly, I checked that there were no cars from my neighborhood parked there. Before going in, I filled the car with gas and did a final reconnaissance to see if I recognized anyone. The coast was clear. Looking in both directions, I looked around for the beer case. A case of ICEHOUSE beer looked like something slugs would enjoy, so I took it over to the checkout stand. The clerk seemed somewhat preoccupied and was nonplussed as I plunked the case of beer down on the counter. Beads of sweat covered my forehead. I was sure that I was going to be busted by The Relief Society President or someone I knew. The clerk took my credit card without looking at me -- I announced hesitantly in a dry voice, "This is for the gas on Pump #4 and the b-b-beer is for the slugs." Twirling his toothpick in his mouth, he looked up at me knowingly and said, "Uh-huh." I had the feeling that he had heard this explanation before and was accustomed to dealing with hypocrites. As I signed the credit card slip, I was so relieved that for a moment, I wanted to ask him if he was familiar with Hamlet, Act III, Scene 1, and possibly discuss conscience, cowards, and courage. Then I realized that I hadn't yet escaped and thought better of it. That was the last time I bought beer.
Ever vigilant,
RT
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