The other evening Christine and I were cozy on our couch when out of the depths of our basement roamed an insidious insect of general description. It looked like a cross between a silverfish and a lady bug. Having drawn the ire of Christine by simply peacefully co-existing with her, my wife directed me to vanquish the nefarious ne’er-do-well, which bothered me because I didn’t feel like getting up.

So I asked Christine why she wanted the bug dead. She told me that bugs have the whole outside to live and when one comes into where she is living it must perish. I pointed out how outrageously illogical I found her insect assassination philosophy and asked her a simple question.

“How would you like it if every time you went outside bugs tried killing you for no reason aside from minding your own business?” I rhetorically inquired. “When you go outside do all of the tiny ants rally, ‘There she is! She isn’t permitted outdoors, it’s where we live. Come on gang, let’s swarm her.’ Yet here you are wishing to kill — wanting me to kill for you — that poor little speck on the wall over there. And why, because it invaded your personal space? This bug has harmed you in no way!”