Thursday, 8 November 2018

Bloody Mossies!

Dat gotta itch
Bloody mossies! I do confess that Kiwi mossies are the most rapacious insects known to man with the possible exception of the Australian variety. Currently, I’m nursing a cascade of fulminating welts; some in their infancy, some fully mature, some in their dotage and on the wane. One thing they share in common though is that they itch abominably. I counted 32 bites on my left foot alone and more on the right. O mossies, where is thy sting!
Tis all my own fault. The large ‘south field’ has been left fallow and to be honest, it is too large to receive the ministrations from our ageing/ailing ride on. Not really a problem, just an observation. Anyway, I was approached by our farmer neighbour the other day, a grizzled old cove with a wonky eye. He suggested that I allow his herd of bullocks to roam free on our pasture to partake of its natural rich, meaty goodness. A mutualistic arrangement you might think. The farmer feeds his stock for nowt and I get my ‘lawn’ cut. I'm only required to fill up the three large water vessels, placed strategically in the field, with water, twice a day. On the first day, I dutifully arrived at 5pm, suitably attired in standard Kiwi summer uniform: flip-flops, string vest and shorts and spent 20 minutes idly hosing the containers.
I quickly became the main focus for my bovine guests and within a thrice was surrounded by the herd. They regarded me with dull dark eyes and when I turned away, they tugged at my inconsequential vest with their long lascivious, rasping tongues. I toiled away oblivious to the fact that I had become the target and victim for a host of malicious mosquitoes. Unaware of their ministrations I continued with my task as if in a drunken reverie. This was probably of no surprise as I’d been steadily quaffing ‘Ole Brain Blaster Ale’ for the best part of the afternoon.  
My task spent, I negotiated the numerous cow pats and returned to my abode to sleep off my afternoon excess. Later I awoke with a thousand furies assailing my feet, legs and hands. It was if a host of mini-gypos had taken roost and unleashed a myriad of small, sharp but finely-honed homemade pegs to pierce and lacerate my manly, well-preserved body. 
The Solution
Luckily, I had had the presence of mind to place two large cannisters of DDT in the shipping container when I emigrated to NZ. As my previous garden was relatively small and unassuming, I’d had little opportunity to use the chemical extensively, to date. Thus, I thoroughly sowed the field with DDT and for good measure, I placed a goodly amount in the water containers. To be on the safe side I decided to drench strategic parts of the property including the Alpaca area and the chuck pen. Although not a permanent solution, I’m hoping that it will keep the virulent little bastards at bay even if it be for but a short time.
In celebration of my fine achievement and sheer joy of ridding my land of these ‘thorns in my flesh’, I was moved sufficiently to pen an ode. A celebration to the miracle that is DDT. I hope you enjoy my acclamation to this truly wondrous compound.          


O' Typhus where is thy sting,
As mediated through the lice vector, Pediculis humanus.
You can no longer stalk humanity as you did,
Except in certain parts of the Southern United States and Asia.
Was it not DDT that saved the Eyeties from certain doom in 1943,
Was not the minions of death laid low and beaten unto dust.
All insects smited and crushed under foot,
And spread as a chitinous carpet of impotent, crunchy, pestilence.

Although it cannot be denied that DDT is a bit indiscriminate,
It still has charms to still the beating wings of death.
Bloody shame about the honey bees,
But what ya gonna do?

O' fickle man, O' capricious man,
Although I did good work, how do you repay my toil,
You placed a ban on my dust and pandered mightily to hippy twats.
I can only spread my pall of death in lands covered in shit,
No longer can my mist envelop the vale of civilisation.

Except the Flaxen haired one did manage to smuggle a 56lb drum into Nuzzyland,
Where it stands proud and garaged ready to be used as a sword upon the crawly foes.
There it can be seen striking the humble aphid and the mighty cockroach alike,
Arse, big fat arse.

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