We had an architect come through our home yesterday, measuring all our nooks and crannies, in anticipation of adding a room to the house. I was my usual charming, unshowered, and lecherous self. It all went well.

Afterwards, when the wife, kid, and I were having dinner, the wife suddenly said, "I have something for you to do. I'll tell you about it later."

Whenever my wife says that she'll tell me something later, it's always bad news. Usually it's because I've committed some sort of marriage foul and deserve a severe tongue-lashing (the bad kind). Sometimes it's because of some upcoming trauma for our daughter that is best mentioned out of kid-earshot. Either way, I'm forced to sit through dinner, all the while dreading the bad news/lecture.

Anyway, after dinner, my wife pulled me aside and informed me that the architect saw a black widow spider in our garage.

I recognized this moment.

I've read about moments like this in books and seen them in movies. This is where a man shows his worth. Moments like this don't come by very often, especially to computer programmers. Nearly 24 years after my bar mitzah, I was being asked to prove my manhood. Would I step forward or weep like a little bitch (no offense to the ladies (even the bitchy ones (no, I'm not talking about you))) ?

"Show me where!" I boldly squeaked to my wife.

She led me to the garage. "The architect said she saw the spider come out from behind that ladder, it rushed at her, because black widow spiders are very aggressive, and then it hid in that wood pile there", my wife said, pointing to a small pile of leftover wood. I instructed my wife to return to the safety of the house, and I began to look around the garage for a weapon, suitably deadly for such a dangerous foe.

Squish it with my shoe? No, I wasn't wearing socks. Black widow spiders can sense these vulnerabilities. Undoutedly he would leap into my shoe at the last second, and feast upon my dainty toes.

Broom? No, I envisioned the spider getting caught in the bristles, and then I'd have to shake out the broom, and then the spider would fly into my eye, releasing its poisonous venom into my tender retina.

Sledge hammer? No, I'd probably end up sledgehammering my dainty toes.

In the end I went with the deadly weapon known as the recycling bin. Once I spotted the spider, I'd slam that bin right on him. BLAMMO! Heh, easy pickins. I was a born hunter. I began fantasizing about action hero catch phrases I could yell.

"You've been recycled!"
"I am the widower-maker!"
"Ewwwww!"

With the recycling bin in one hand, I began to poke at the wood pile with a long metal pole. After moving at each piece of wood, I'd involuntarily make a manly little hop of fear. It was kind of an intimidation dance. Piece after piece of wood got removed from the pile and still my crafty nemesis remained hidden.

Finally, as I poked at the last piece of wood, a tiny black spider crawled/jumped towards me. I sprang into action, slamming the recycling bin of death down onto his inch-long body. Wracked with rage, I just barely stopped from mercilessly bludgeoning him over and over. It was nearly one of those scenes where one guy, maybe a cop, starts by defending himself, and then loses all self-control, beating his opponent to death, only stopping when his partner drags him off and says, "He's dead."

Nearly one of those scenes, I tell you.

Anyway, I poked a bit at the smooshed spider and I didn't see any red dot. I don't think it was a black widow. Definitely black though. And definitely smooshed. I scooped him up in a paper towel and threw him away so that my daughter would never have to see such carnage in her own garage.

And that, my friends, is how it's done (assuming by "it" we're all referring to the timid slaughter of a tiny spider). Yeeeeah.