One summer I worked as a dishwasher in a Shoney's outside Birmingham, AL. My job duties included sweeping the parking lot, changing the movable letters on the sign, cleaning the mens room ($2.99-breakfast-bar diarrhea is probably worthy of superfund status), and emptying the tallow bin. The manager was this fat pimply dude who drove a yellow customized pickup and smoked Virginia Slims. My sole pleasure at this job was that outside the backdoor were some preying mantids, a whole bunch of young 'uns. Just hatched.

Once in my frequent escapes out back, a coworker came out to ask what I's up to. "Nothing," I says. "Just looking at these mantises."

"Damn!" He said with a childlike glee. And he then stomped them all to death.

!!!!!!!! eatitlive. What an asshole! Fireants I could understand, but not praying mantises.

As a kid, I used to catch praying mantises and keep them in a cage my dad built for me. I'd keep them for a few days, then let them go. They were way fun to watch.

Anyway, we went away for spring break one year shortly after I'd had a mantis friend. The cage was put away in my closet, we left town. Came home a week later and there were zillions of baby mantids in my closet. They were everywhere: On the walls, on the clothes, on the shelves -- EVERYWHERE.

Thus began the race. I tried to capture as many as I could so they could be set free, while my squealing mother went after them with the hose attachment of the vacuum cleaner.