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slimy little bastards
Tuesday the 24th of April 2001 @ 8:10 p.m.

So, Iíve been told this should be an entry.

When me and Mal talk we inevitably suggest to each other that some thread of conversation just HAS to get written up. Here it goes.

So, I go slug hunting on my patio at night.

Thatís right me and those little slimy bastards do battle just about every night around 9:00.

I know they have there place in the ecosystem and all, and I respect that, itís not like Iím applying some indiscriminate chemical of mass arthropodal genocide.

Nope, me and my box of coarse kosher salt do just fine.

Iím sure Iím Fucking my Karma, or something, and I should probably just Ďtellí them to leave as the witches suggested.

(Ok, Iíll probably add that to my nightly ritual too.)

LOL, Actually it will be more of an ultimatum. Howís this?

ďGet the Hell out of my garden, or youíll end up like your friend here.Ē

*read that with a 1940's, cigarette hanging off his lip, gangsters accent.*

Um yeah, so basically I figure my nightly salting still leaves plenty for my little toady friend to munch on, and It does a relatively good job of protecting my more delicate patio plants.

So, speaking of afore mentioned witches, did I tell you what the salt does to them?

Itís really kinda gross. Cover your eyes and go ďnah, nah, nahĒ through this part if your at all squeamish.

The salt . . .

Duh duh duh . . .

ĎMeltsí them.

Like instantly.

It lands on them and proceeds to pull the moisture right out of their poor, little, Mucus covered bodies.

Right before your eyes even.

Poor buggers.

Thatís the part that I think is Fucking my karma.

Maybe if I throw some of the salt over my shoulder I will be okay.

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