Let's talk about scorpions...

One of the best things about Minnesota is that there’s no scorpions here. I don’t think I could live in one of those desert states infested with them. Imagine having to shake out your shoes every time you want to go someplace. Imagine one of those foul things falling out of them. I can tell you what I would do if a scorpion got into my footwear. I would first launch into an instinctual killing frenzy, battering the dreaded thing until it was just a smear of goo on the kitchen tiles. Then I would curl up into a ball and cry for a month and a half straight. I’d have to be institutionalized. I would be like one of those characters in a kid’s ghost story. My hair would turn bone white and I’d stay shut up in my house, peering out the blinds and howling during certain moon phases. I’m exaggerating, but only a little. When I try to think of the worst possible way to die, falling face first into a twenty-foot deep well half-filled with scorpions is probably number two or three on the list. Number one is being crushed by a nude and frenzied Rush Limbaugh after his addled mind mistakes me for his eighteenth wife. That’s neither here nor there, though.