Does anything say “For the lovagod douse this flame of heartwarmth before I self-immolate!” like a pair of striped bark scorpions caught inadvertently in a spider trap under the frigidaire?
The great romantic tragedy of this tableau: it is likely that these two were in the throes of a heartwarming courtship ballet when their tender young lives were snuffed out by the passive but brutal intervention of the newly implemented Bunkhouse De-Sicariidization Program. Which Program sickens the spinster aunt, but dammit, my hands are tied.
It would probably have ended badly for at least one of the participants, with me or without me; scorpions are one of those orders of arachnids where the female eats the male after copulation, fanciful anthropomorphized interpretations of which perfectly reasonable behavior have been implemented by dudely poets immemorial as hackneyed metaphors describing the fictitious sinister wiles human women wield over men. A propos of a recent Blametarian discussion on PG Wodehouse’s vicious female characters: quoth Jeeves to Bertie Wooster: “The female is the deadlier of the species, sir.”