Around 3:30 in the morning, as I happily dreamt of busty maidens, I was jolted awake by something tickling me. I sleep alone: no wife, no girlfriend, no cat, no dog, no wacky robot side-kick. My mind, naturally, fell back on its old standby, panic. I launched myself out of bed and turned the light on. I may have jumped up and down to get whatever was on me to fall off. I can't remember. On the floor was a cricket. I quickly disposed of him and went back to bed. No, that's not true. I caught it. It escaped, leaving me holding a twitching rear leg which, when I realized what I was holding, I flung away like a hot nail. The cricket, now reduced to five legs, could only hop in circles. I pounced on it and escorted the thing to the transporter room (i.e. the toilet).
I hate crickets. I especially hate this time of year when it starts to get a little coolish outside and the crickets come into the house and chirp all night long with a machine-like persistence. There is no gentle chirping when a cricket is in your ceiling at 2:00 AM only six feet from your head. No, it's more like an endless mechanical screeching that makes it impossible to sleep. If you've never before experienced this type of torture, I can't adequately describe just how loud one horny cricket can be. At least roaches don't make noise.