Goin' Buggy!Commentary • ISSUE 36•28 • Aug 16, 2000 By T. Herman Zweibel, Publisher Emeritus (photo circa 1911) Well, week two of being an enormous cock-roach, and I must admit that it's not so bad. If this sentiment sounds curious to you, bear in mind that prior to this metamorphosis, I was a 132-year-old human being who was constantly bed-ridden. My mobility has greatly improved, and I can skitter about quite ably from room to room on my six hairy legs. I have a commanding set of mandibles, and my shell is of an attractive mahogany hue. It's not glamorous, but I must say that if I had to metamorphose into an insect, I could have done far worse, such as a meal-worm or one of those creepy luna moths. Ewww! My exoskeleton crawls just to think of it! Also, it's not as if there were a dainty lady around here who would scream and faint dead away at my shocking condition. The only woman is Nurse Pin-head, and she's about as squeamish as a pillar of flint. When she saw me scaling the wall of my study, she merely shrugged and walked away. It took Doc McGillicuddy a few minutes to notice what had happened to me during my weekly check-up. Responding to my queries about my condition (I can still talk despite my commanding set of mandibles), Doc McGillicuddy produced a small pamphlet. It was a narrative about a Jewish sales-man from Prague who experienced a similar physical transformation. Curious, I bade Nurse Pin-head to read it to me. At first, I found the description of the petit-bourgeois preoccupations of Mr. Samsa and his family rather twee, discursive, and far too conversational for a medical-tract. And I kept wishing that the author would get to the part about the cure. Then Nurse Pin-head read aloud the char-woman's discovery. "Holy shit!" I shrieked. "You're going to kill me!" My antennae quivered uncontrollably, and I shot under-neath the sofa in my study as fast as my legs could carry me. I didn't care if it was socially unacceptable to turn into a giant bug; no-one was going to hurl apples at me! In spite of my servants' entreaties, I refused to emerge. "If there's no cure for my condition, so be it!" I cried! "Just call me Blattella germanica from now on. And while you're at it, bring me a plate of rotten meat!" I don't want any-one feeling sorry for me. Come to think of it, no-one felt sorry for me when I was an infirm old man, so the hell with you all! I still spend most of my time under-neath the sofa, but for the last couple nights I've been going down to the kitchen and lingering around the sink-pipes. I like the dampness, away from the char-woman.