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Crotch fight at the cockroach cafe

Written by: Hagen Engler
Published: Tuesday, July 10, 2012

It’s the last moments of the evening and we’re just calling things off. Brushing our teeth and deciding whether it’s cold enough to wear a T-shirt to bed.

As I’m throwing the last of the beer cans in the bin, I notice a cockroach scuttling across the floor of the room. It’s heading diagonally across the carpet, from the pool table towards the refrigerator.

We’re about to go to bed, and I start flashing on images of cockroaches scuttling across my face while I sleep. I’m not having it. The cockroach is gonna have to go.

With nimble stealth, I prance over to the fridge and give it a shake. Sure enough, the cockroach emerges and makes a break for it.

Stomp! But I’ve missed. He heads for the little side table.

On top of the side table is an ebony coaster, a nice, solid, wooden placemat. Perfect for squashing a cockroach.

But I need to get within range. It’s a light, little table so I get down, sit next to the side table and prepare to lift the corner, revealing the roach and hastening its demise.

But it’s a cunning, bloody cockroach. As I lift the corner, I’m just, just aware of my enemy shooting to the left, underneath my outstretched legs, as I lie on the floor, peering beneath the side table.

Tjoeps! It sprints under my shorts and… Jeez! What if it’s gone up my shorts! It could be on me! Where’s it gone? Where’s it gone?

I jump to my feet, desperately scanning the floor and patting myself down for the renegade crawler. The thing could be anywhere. Oh-my-god! There it is.

There, poised on the bulge of my crotch, stands my nemesis. The cockroach. Reared up on his hind legs, he’s in full attack mode. His antennae swivel wildly; cold, merciless eyes fix me with a death stare. As he brandishes his forelegs like pincers, it looks like he’s about to plunge his claws into the flesh beneath his feet!

There’s not a second to be lost! I’m still holding the ebony coaster, so without a moment’s thought, I smash the daylights out of the roach, as he stands defiant on my crotchal bulge. One swift, downward blow to the genitals.

A white flash of pain shoots through my entire body and I drop to the floor like a stone. I’ve just punched myself in the testicles as hard as I can.
My wife emerges from the bathroom, having just finished brushing her teeth.
I’m in a foetal ball, pale and speechless, between the pool table and the fridge and an up-ended side table. I’m making a strange sound: laughing hysterically and moaning in agony at the same time.

“Oh my god, Baby! What happened? You look like you’ve been in a fight!”

“I have!” I croaked. “Been in a fight.”

“You so pale, my babe! Are you okay?”

“Nnnnn. Should see the other guy.”

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