At this point I realized I’d either developed some James Cameron super 3D floaters, or I was about to have my own Chris Farley in Tommy Boy moment.

It buzzed back in my vision and hit me in the cheek. I shrieked and took both hands off the wheel to swat at my attacker. It landed on my left boob, which led to more screaming, and the second I looked back up, a high-pitched skid as I slammed on the brakes and missed the bumper of the car in front of me by a millimeter.

Freaking out that nature’s winged beast was now affixed to my chestal region and apparently attempting to breast feed, I pulled a hard right into a parking lot, nearly flattening an old lady leaving Grower’s Direct. I glanced back down and yelped, “What are you doing, bug? I’m not freaking lactating. Get…,” I plucked at the fabric around it, trying to trampoline fling it at the windshield, “Off!”

I thrust the car door opened and flew out, jumping up down whilst flicking at my teet. I hopped about squealing Beaker meeps that happened to create a nice harmony over The Pointer Sister’s “I’m so Excited” blaring from my open vehicle and adding to my embarrassment.

Finally, the mutant surrendered its calling as the world’s smallest breast pump. It spread its wings to fly toward some other unsuspecting driver. It was at that moment when I noticed its red and black pattern.

Sweet Jesus, I thought. I almost crashed my car, hit an old lady, and gave myself a public breast exam over a ladybug.

But in my defense, they really are creepy little insects, especially when they’re trying to milk you. It was definitely not baby sized so there’s just no excuse. It was large, which begs the question: Was it a lesbian ladybug? Obviously so.

I’m telling you, do not let the name fool you. Do you think it’d be any less to disturbing to find yourself driving along in your car only to have a gentleman worm drop down on your lap?

You think you’d just keep cruising down the highway in your Camero, the T-top open, your skullet blowing wind, as you act like you don’t care that an episode of Fear Factor is taking place on your cod piece? No, you’d probably crash because only the name of the sick creature and not the reality of it is a euphemism.

Your crotch-diving gentleman worm would not sport a little bow tie under his slimy neck any more than my ladybug donned a bonnet. It was not a lady. It was a bug. And it attacked me.

So stop trying to make me feel like a freak for calling this ladybug what she really is and that is Anxiety Activator number sixty-one.

Absolutely disgusting. So wrong on so many levels, God. Nice work forgetting all of their LIMBS! How are they supposed to commit suicide now?

Nothing creeps me out more than these tiny floating testaments to Satan’s existence. They are prehistoric, and creepy, and amputated of all their hooves. I do not approve of their little curled up stump, their little unileg, their sick miniature merman tail. It’s disgusting and begs so many disgusting questions. How do they bone? How do they urinate? You know they’re taking in a lot of water, what with being all seafaring and waterlogged and whatnot.

Seahorses should have gone extinct millions of years ago and if God had a suggestion box in the sky I would inform him as such. Unfortunately, The Lord continues to refuse to take action on my complaints (you know what I’m referring to Holy One – don’t pretend “menstruation” doesn’t ring a bell), yet I hereby request that if you’re listening, Sweet Fetus Jesus, please do something about the ocean’s seahorse infestation. Until then I refuse to go to church. Or the doctor’s office with the disgusting aquarium set up. Or the beach. Or Sea World. Or the bathtub. Amen.

If anyone knows of a high class alpaca ranch in the SoCal area please leave a comment. I’m kinda in the market for at least one female alpaca, but Big Mama’s got to be show quality. Non of that imitation llama crap and don’t send me to some toddler populated petting zoo, either.

I mean to say that I want to visit a premiere breeding ground for the finest, most sexy alpaca specimens. And don’t write me any hate mail saying, “You can’t get an alpaca at your tiny beach apartment! Where will it graze?” or “You cannot afford an alpaca. Do you have any idea how much it costs to feed and dress an alpaca?” or “You can’t get an alpaca after your bestiality conviction.” Silence! I’m not buying the freaking alpaca to put on my balcony, dummy. I just want to put one on layaway or something until I have a yard. Jesus, what kind of messed up pet owner do you think I am?!

Oh, look at YOU with your little matching beard and toupee set!

Can you even imagine the things he could gouge out with that beak? All while mocking your screams of protest - making you feel like even more of a pussy. "Stop biting me, Parrot." "Squawk! Stop biting me, Parrot." Parrots. I disapprove.

I don’t think we even need to discuss this one. But if we did need to, I would point out Exhibit A: Birds Are Not Supposed to Talk. Ever. Not even in Hollywood blockbusters like Beverly Hills Bald Eagle. Ooo, that would be a good porn name spin on that stupid chihuahua movie that also hurts my brain. Parrots. What are they good for? Eating all of your Saltines without saying Please first? Parroting everything you say in their wry, sardonic wit. It’s creepy and it’s rude and it makes me wish I could just shove a fistful of Klonopin down my gullet.

Also: those red-assed babboons.

Both seem to be mocking me in their own ways. They make me nervous. I dispprove.

Stop making fun of me, baboon! I'm Irish! It's not my fault; all of my people have pink butts. You're teasing a nation, baboon, a whole nation! Not to mention all the sunburned albinos out there. How do you call yourself a baboon?

But I thought we could just spoon a litte. No?

It’s after one-thirty in the morning and as I was about to commence my nightly ritual of taking my Ambien and watching Raccoon Attack on NatGeo, I happened to glance down the side of the two liter jug of root beer I was swilling. There, on the faux-wooden barrel label, that ominous little exclamation mark in a triangle preceding the word “WARNING” caught my eye.

I paused, mid-swallow, and thought to myself, “No, surely root beer cannot attack as well. Was shattering my illusions that I might safely one day snuggle with the cutest Zoro-masked furballs in the rodent kingdom not enough for you, God?! Must you now taint my favorite non-Mr. Pibb soft drink with images of death, too?”

I considered the caps lock warning, hoping the only reason my root beer bore a disclaimer was because some overzealous fetus-loving organization had won a lawsuit against pregnant caffeine addicts, but then I remembered…A&W isn’t caffeinated. 

At this point I decided I might as well see what new phobia I could add to my list of Things That Make Me a Pussy and was confronted with the single most horrifying tidbit of information I could have read: 

CAP MAY BLOW OFF CAUSING EYE OR SERIOUS OTHER INJURY. POINT AWAY FROM FACE AND PEOPLE, ESPECIALLY WHILE OPENING.

Fine, I thought, I’ll point it away from my face while opening next time, unless I’m wearing my onion goggles, but how in the hell am I supposed to point it away from my face while I’m chugging out of it?

This was only the first of many disheartening contemplations the admonition evoked. Not only was I disturbed that even root beer could force me to relive my formative days as the only girl on my preschool campus sporting an eye patch, but I was troubled by the fact that, apparently, my mother has a secret second job in copywriting for A&W.

Now every time I see someone selecting a soda in a vending machine, I’m going to feel the need to scream, “Stop! You could put my eye out with that thing.” And I was just celebrating the fact that no one had hit me in the eye with a champagne cork over the holidays. I’m so glad my embarrassing urge to duck and cover my face every time someone mentions they’re thirsty is going to last year-round.

Thanks a lot, Authority of Dr Pepper/Seven Up, Inc. Don’t be surprised if you get an irate call on your 866 number when my Damnbien kicks in in another six to nine minutes. We’ll see who needs a warning then. Oh, we’ll see indeed.