In case you don't know, I clean pools for a living while I'm going to school. Good job, totally menial, around $15 dollars an hour, and I get to be my own boss. Can't get any better, right?

Right, sure, with the exception of the Potaeto Bug.

<-- ACTUAL SIZE

The Patato Bug is a creature of such vile stature, such Satanic upbringing and such pure evil embodiment that the mere viewing of one in its natural habitat will result in uncontrollable vomiting and shaking. The Patoto Bug, such a horribly revolting creature that words themselves are incapable of demonstrating its truely hideous nature, animals that are so disgusting that the human mind itself is incapable of comprehending what they are truely created out of.

Potaatoo Bugs, animals with the insidious minds of psychotic schizophrentic lepers with steely knives, waiting for you to close your eyes until they look at you from beyond your vision; but you know that they are looking at you, with every fiber of their absolutely terrible beings conspiring in undeath to do things worse than destroy you. Pot-to Bugs inhabit the underground world for eons, languishing within Satan's gaze, gnawing with Satan himself, becoming Satan himself, destroying all life which views them with their intrusive quailities of infinite evil. Pytytyo Bugs curse all that views them with an insanity; using their absolute Hellishness, which transcends the bounds of human rationale, they entrap the viewer into a fascination which causes every waking moment to be spent thinking, pondering, fatasizing about the Patater Bug, but due to last shreds of human decency their evil may never be fully understood, until it is too late, and the human has gnawed himself into a Pototer spawn from within.

These Hellish insects do not die. Every fiber is a product of pure evil, or that which is worse than pure evil; even when dismembered into three pieces, they do not die. No, they still bite, look, think, and stare at you. Even when smashed underneath your boot, they do not die. No, the guts crawl, usually up the sides of your boot in every direction at once. Even when caught on flame, they do not die. No, they thrive, punishing all life itself with the beyond-Satanic wail of the Potootoo Bug, a sound, if it can be limited to such a primative perception, that attacks every fiber of life on every level possible and impossible for the human mind to discern. Even when drowned, held onto the bottom of a swimming pool basket for a week, they do not die. No, they act unconscious, but the vile incarnate of their minds remains until they are in the position to destroy the last shreds of sanity in the living mind. No, Putato Bugs don't die, for they do not live; no, they are affronts to life itself, products of Satan which are dedicated to the endless mutilation of life, not through outright destruction, but through their mere prescence, which drives every living being to the face of a laughing Satan, intent on transforming you into another one of his Pootato minions.

Pataato Bugs travel in packs of undying evil. They do not die. They pursue the location where they will do maximum, undying pain to life; my swimming pools. Like sociopathic lemmings, by the scores do they fill my swimming pools. Inches deep, like gelatinous horse urine on the bottom of your shower in the morning. Teeming on the bottom, like the detached maws that bite your feet from just below the surf's sands. Refusing to be vacuumed up, like a brick of naily, sticky, grievously revolting evil. Swarming to the pool baskets, biting the hands, battling your sanity; being ground up, body after inch-thick, vomit-chunk-like body into the steel impellor of the swimming pool pump. But not dying, for evil does not die; their evil continues, becoming a body-less mass of teeming evil, like vomit, spreading out back through the pool, still alive with their more-whole, equally evil brethren, all consuming and poisoning the swimming pool of my mind with their never dying bodies, wails, stenches and stares.

And never do they stop. Never will the Potootu Bug, the creature which the last notions of beauty that exist in my mind keep from being named; never do the Pootu Bugs vanish. They keep going, gnawing within your brain, within your soul; gnawing the very essence of the holy within you yourself.

And yet, to battle this which cannot be defeated, the Internet comes to the rescue.

http://www.potatobugs.com/

Ya'll thought I was crazy, didn't you? Ya'll thought I was all alone in my plight, didn't you? But no, you see, THERE ARE MORE OF US. Unite against the Potuto Bug; it IS the last thing that you, as a human with possession of a notion of beauty, will be capable of doing until you too are devoured by your suicidal fascination of the evil undeath of Portort Bugs.

 

I think the moral of that story is:

How many ways can you spell potato?

Around here, the potato bug is a completely different animal.
We call these potato bugs:


I believe they are really Pill Bugs, Sow Bugs, Wood Lice, or something like that.


phox

 

No; those aren't Pootata Bugs. Those are NOT Pootata Bugs.

I mean, those things don't have "bodies" like BRATWURSTS. THOSE THINGS don't BITE YOU and DRAW BLOOD. When THOSE get reduced to a gelatinious mass of evil by a pump impellor, they don't REMAIN ALIVE making InDESCRIBABLE NOISES and SMELLING BEYOND THE EXTREME OF EVIL.

WHEN YOU STEP ON THOSE THINGS, THEY DON'T PUSH BACK!

AHHHHHHHH!!!!!


Hmmp.... ...... Hmp hmmmmmp................ Hmmmpppp..............

Mommie....

 

I never want to, dig a mass of still-alive, screaming, tapping, rattling, stinking, speaking evil, out of a pump impellor, with my fingers, ever again.

I want to die. I want to die. I wish I have never percieved anything in my entire life. I wish I never heard the Poototo Bug; I wish I never saw the Poototo Bug, I wish I never smelled and tasted the Patato Bug, and my God, I wish I never FELT the Paatooto Bug. IT is all I percieve. THEY are all that I gaze upon with all of my being. HE is all there is...

Just kill me. Deliver me, oh my Jesus, deliver me... Take me away...

 

So, I take it you don't like them?

 

Put down the crack pipe and back away from the computer. The men in white coats are on their way.

 

Is it just me, or does anyone else get the impression Begle might have some issues?????????????

 

Just kinda thinkin the driveway doesnt make it all the way to the garage?

 

Yup, just a couple of french fries short of a happy meal......

 

I have to admit, they are a little viscious.

I was bitten by one in Christmas Valley, Oregon during an off-road race. Trust me, I felt the pain for awhile afterwards.

Jeff

 

Speaking of pool service, you should try getting the toad out of the throat of your pool sweep after he has been there for close to a week. He may not still be alive, but by god, he still is nasty.

 

Begle....can I please have some of whatever you are smoking?? I wish I had that much excitement in my life! ...Wow..I must have a pretty dull life if I think hating a bug and writing several paragraphs about it exciting...
Have you ever thought of becoming an author?

 

I found a rabbit in the inlet of our swimming pool last year. By the time I found it the pump had burned up and the little guy was done for. Spendy little guy .
Then to top it off he was wedged in so tight I tore him in half getting him out . You know there's just some things you don't tell the little lady at the end of the day when she asks how things went .
CJ

 

I think you might be onto something there.....

Of course I have always had concerns about B1. I have visions of a "Caddy Shack" / Bill Murray type indvidual (who cleans pools for a living) eeking out a meger existance in a one room garage with a hot plate for heat, typing away on a highjacked internet access with a stolen wireless laptop, using an extention cord stealing power from a neighbor's outside outlet.



NooffenseintendedBegal1.

 

Ahhh but you forget, according to Iker, Begle1 is a hot chick..........