I HATE PETER IN MY HOUSE

I hate you Peter. Why are you even in my house? Who invited you? You make me anxious and you suck.

Last Sunday, when my wife inturrupted my bathroom solitude by telling me there were 15 of you swarming on our basement window, I didn't know what to think. When I saw you buzzing and falling out of my basement tile, I started to freak out. Peter, I know you probably thought I was overreacting by sucking you up with our vaccuum cleaner, but I wasn't sure of what else to do. You invaded my home and went after my wife and my cat. I had no choice but to go Charles Bronson on your thorax.

I finally felt a bit reassured after the fat exterminator sprayed you and your friends with the white fluffy powder, but he told me he couldn't find your nest. He told me that more Peters may be arriving over the next week or two, but that they were just baby Peters. Now, every time I see another Peter I smash him with a shoe and clean up the stain with a paper towel.

Peter, I hope you've learned your lesson from this. Stay in trees or garage overhangs or unused swing sets where you belong. Don't come into my home again. If I could somehow rape you, I would.

-Miffed in Minneapolis