(Philly’s own) Danny and the Juniors.
So I’m in bed, reading a book, when I notice that this one fly that’s been hanging around for a few days is in my bedroom. But I can’t find my flyswatter, and I really don’t want to get out of bed, anyway.
I grab a magazine and figure if it comes close enough, I can get it. But it’s as if the little fucker can read my mind, and flies just out of reach. (Bastard.)
Then I have another idea. I have a pile of six rubber bands on my bedside table, and I start shooting them at the fly, which is now happily poised on the top of the teevee. One after another, I let them fly at the fly, but I’m wide every time. I’m down to my last rubber band, and I’m muttering to myself, like Bill Murray in “Caddyshack.”
“Be the rubber band, become one with the rubber band,” I tell myself, and fire. Bullseye! Now I can go to sleep without worrying about a goddamned insect flying into my mouth. (Flies are attracted to the carbon dioxide you exhale. Now you can worry, too!)
And when I wake up this morning, I hear: “Bzzzzz…..” Little fucker survived. This is war.
Judy and Fred sing Irving Berlin.