Mite Be Gone

The teeny tiny creepy crawly things, affectionately known as bird mites, have ended their unwanted invasion of my bubble. Following five days of anal retentive bathroom wall inspection and subsequent execution of any random mites I would find, the birds --- occupants of the nest that turned out to be the origin of this infestation --- decided it was time to move out. Their funky nest was quickly transplanted to the bottom of a Hefty garbage bag by a rubber-gloved guy named Jim --- the person who owns the flat that I rent with the bathroom connected to the exhaust fan that welcomed the accidental avian troublemakers and their mite-infested love children.

Nest gone. Mites gone.

End of an ordeal, so it seems. I won't, however, be taking my toothbrush out of its protective Zip Lock bag until I've culminated more data to confirm the mite's complete departure.

And now the Italian Appreciation Festival has begun on my street. For the next three days my neighborhood will be a bit busier and a bit noisier. But at least with the street barricaded off for the festival patrons and vendors, the ambiance in front of Chez Bubbleboy (located a scant block away from the end of the street-fest where traffic is forced to make an abrupt left or right turn), should see much less needless cruising by dudes who compensate for their own tiny-equipment by driving obnoxious and annoying bass-thumpin'-in-da-trunk automobiles.

BOOOOOOM thump. Da da da da DOOOOOOOOOOOM thump.
Bump bump bump bump DOOOOOOOOOOOOOM bump bump bump bump.

Crap. Never mind.