I am thinking of asking NATO to establish a No Fly Zone in my apartment this summer. Surely even that dithering collection of international pantywaists will realize that any winged insect wiping its crap-caked legs on my ham sandwich is a humanitarian crisis that simply cannot be ignored. I won't need much in the way of weaponry: a rolled-up French newspaper; an English can of pest control spray; and a Venus Flytrap courtesy of President Obama - if, of course, Hilary Clinton can persuade him to release a particularly hungry example from the Pentagon's extensive botanical gardens. Alas, negotiations have been slow in the American sphere. I've been told that the Pentagon might provide me with an actual plant, but I have to supply the armor-plated pot and the special potting soil. Neither of these things are in my summer budget; a budget that is already over-taxed with requirements for SPF 9000 suntan oil, broad brimmed hat, waterproof shoes and a daily ice cream (large cone with chocolate sprinkles). Apparently some naysayers in the Department of Defence are demanding to know what my exit strategy is before the Venus Flytrap loan is approved. Since I am unable to identify the actual source of the summer fly infestation, they claim that the plant could become bogged down in my apartment for decades, killing the occasional fly but never getting to grips with the heart of the problem. I've told Hilary and her team that I believe that the heart of the problem is an uneaten beef and falafel sandwich that my plumber left in the basement, but the Department of Defence inspectors remain unconvinced that flies would lay their eggs on that. I don't know. I hope I can count on American support, otherwise I'll be reduced to flicking old elastic bands at the the flies with my thumb, and we all know how badly that tactic turned out for Dick Cheney's thumb. Ouch.
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