Okay, I know what happened in Miami was a tragic event, and I feel sorry for the contestant's family and friends, as well as the deceased contestant; but still, I have to wonder about anyone who would eat insects, alive or otherwise.
In case you don't know to what event I'm referring, I read an article in Wednesday's The Advocate (my newspaper of choice) by Tamara Lush (I did not make up that name) and Suzette Laboy of the Associated Press about a man who died after eating dozens of live insects in a contest to win a female ivory ball python (a big snake). The insects were roaches, three to four inches long; crickets; and worms. Hmm, I didn't know worms were insects. Are they? The classification of worms aside, however, this guy consumed dozens. How did he eat them? Well, according to Sarah Bernard, an entomology student at the University of Florida, who videoed the event and and was interviewed by Lush and Laboy, "He had a clear strategy. He would push everything into his mouth and try to swallow them with water. He figured out what worked and he did it" (p. 7A, para. 16).
When my brother, sister, and I were growing up in rural Georgia, we did a lot of foolish things, and we sometimes ate things that weren't fit for human consumption, for instance, dirt, persimmons, fried pork rinds, and dog biscuits (Don't ask). We never once, though, considered eating bugs, at least not intentionally. Granted, we occasionally swallowed a bug or two when we were bicycling with our mouths open, but we did not intend to swallow those bugs. And I'm sure that when my brother got older and went through his motorcycle phase, he probably swallowed a few bugs. After all, I always heard, "You can tell a happy motorcyclist by the bugs between his teeth." Still, again, let me emphasize, no one in my family ever intentionally put a bug in his or her mouth, chewed on it, and then swallowed it.
Of course, bug eating for fun and profit isn't a new phenomenon. As Lush and Laboy relate, people ate Madagascar cockroaches, which as I learned from research are really, really huge and hiss at you, a few years back for a chance to win passes to Six Flags in Illinois; and last year, "people ate live roaches at the Exploreum Science Center in Mobile, Alabama" (para. 8). Why did folks eat them in Mobile? I don't know because the article didn't say. Maybe they just like to eat bugs in Mobile.
Anyway, what I've been wondering ever
since I read the article in Wednesday's Advocate is why on earth people do
such outrageous and totally disgusting things for fifteen minutes of fame? It's one thing to stuff your face with hot dogs like contestants do at Coney Island every year, but bugs? Well, to answer that question, Lush and Laboy say that "experts point to the rise in reality TV shows and movies such as Fear Factor as egging people on and breaking down the ick factor" (para. 6). Moreover, they cite Lou Manza, a
psychology professor at Lebanon Valley College, who contends that "folks who participate
in extreme events like bug eating 'are looking for things to make life
interesting'" (Lush & Laboy, para. 8).
I have news for you. My life may not be overly exciting, and I may not experience an adventure every waking minute, or even every year for that matter, but there is no way on God's green earth that I am going to stuff my mouth with insects, alive or dead. I mean, come on, contrary to what my ex-husband thought, and probably still thinks, my mama didn't raise no idiot.
Source: Lush, T. & Laboy, S. Death sparks daredevil questions. Baton Rouge, LA: The Advocate. Wednesday, October 10, 2012. p. 7A
Okay, so now I have to eat my words. Last night I blogged about the humiliation of tweeting on Twitter without having any followers. Well, as of today, I now have five followers. Yes, that's right, five!
Of course, I have to wonder about anyone who would want to follow me on Twitter. After all, who am I? To borrow from the late-and-great Emily Dickinson, "I'm nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody too?" See, there, I admit it: I'm a nobody. Then again, being a nobody has certain advantages, wouldn't you agree?
For instance, when you're a nobody, you don't have to worry about other people's admiring, emulating, or imitating you. Just think about it. If you were, oh, say, Jennifer Anniston or Johnny Depp, you'd never be able to enjoy doing things like shopping at Walmart (not that you'd want to shop there, but this is hypothetical situation) because you would be constantly inundated by adoring fans wanting your autograph or, heaven forbid, wanting to pinch you to see if you were real and, therefore, capable of feeling pain the way a real person does. You'd also see "clones" of yourself everywhere, since people would want to look like you. They would fix their hair the same way as you, dress the same way, and even walk and talk the same way. What's more, you'd never be able to go out in public wearing just any old thing or with your hair mussed, gain a few extra pounds, or stuff your face with double-cheeseburgers at a drive-thru without waking up the next day to extremely unflattering photos of yourself plastered on the covers of all the tabloids, which, by the way, you would try to read in the checkout line at Walmart but not be able to read because the checker would be pinching you to see if you were real.
Now, all of that said, I am still admittedly quite amazed that anyone would actually want to follow my tweets on Twitter, as well as a little thrilled--not a lot thrilled, just a little. The problem, however, is that since I now have followers, I feel obligated to give them something to follow, and that sense of obligation just adds to my already hectic schedule. Moreover, the time I spend tweeting on Twitter could be better spent writing something considerably more substantial, for example, my next novel. Hmm, then again, now that I think about it, maybe I should simply write my next novel as a series of tweets. I'll title the novel The Tweet That Never Died; The Long, Long Tweet; or, hey, what about, Tweet to Eternity?
I actually opened a Twitter account around two weeks ago. Don't ask me why. I really don't know why I opened the account. Perhaps, though, somewhere deep down in the dark recesses of my psyche, or what passes for one, I thought it would help my writing career. Not that I have a writing career, but I am earnestly striving to have one. I do, after all, now have three novels, a collection of short stories, and as of today, a horror novella, all of which have been published. Have I earned enough from any of them to enable me to give up my day job and write full-time? Well, honestly, no, although I have earned enough for maybe two full meals at McDonald's, but I keep hoping that someday something I write will take off and become a runaway bestseller. Hey, it doesn't hurt to dream, now does it?
Wait a minute, where was I? Oh, I remember; I was relating how I opened a Twitter account, even though I think twittering and tweeting should be left to the birds and I have to wonder about people who share their every thought, however insipid it might be, and their every action, however insipid it might be, with other people, especially total strangers. Hmm, then again, I also have to wonder about the people who want to read about the thoughts and actions of total strangers. And what about this fascination with celebrities? I mean, who cares what Jennifer Anniston or Kirstie Alley or Lady Gaga had for breakfast or what thoughts ran through their heads as they sat in the dentist's chair waiting for a root canal? Do I care? Quite frankly, no. I don't give two hoots in you-know-where. Oops, I think I've gotten off the subject again, so let me refocus:
As I was saying, I opened my very own Twitter account, after which I proceeded to post some "tweets," and trust me, writing something in 140 characters or less was not easy for me. In case you've never noticed, I do tend to be quite wordy. Well, my wordiness notwithstanding, I posted some witticisms and insightful observations on life, in my own inimitable style, and felt quite pleased with myself. My sense of self-satisfaction and accomplishment was short-lived, however, when I returned to my Twitter account a few days later, only to learn that no one had read anything I had written. In other words, I had no followers, and when I checked again tonight, I still had no followers. Can you imagine my sense of rejection? I feel totally unloved and unwanted. "Poor pitiful me," I thought.
The reality, of course, is that I don't have the time, or the desire, to post "tweets" every few minutes or even every few hours throughout the day, even if anyone did care to read about what I was thinking or doing, so maybe it's a good thing I have no followers. What's more, I think I shall now return to Twitter and close my account. But then, if when I return, what if I see that I have actually attracted a follower, maybe even two, in my absence? Talk about a dilemma. Oh, whatever shall I do? I know, I'll write a tweet!
And that's it from the swamps of south Louisiana for October 8, 2012. May all your tweets be good tweets.
