The Impending Flying Cockroachapocalypse Plague of Doom and Gloom
Cockroaches and New York City go together just about as well as peanut butter and jelly. You really can’t have one without the other. Roaches are a prolific and probably beneficial part of the New York fauna.
Yet they’re the single most dreaded creature for urban dwellers.
This past weekend New York experienced a heat wave of epic proportions. The heat index reached 110⁰, ACs were maxed out, and very few men were seen wearing shirts in the parks. Everyone stayed inside as much as possible, not only because of the heat, but because of the prospects of flying roaches. Roaches propelled and aimed straight for the mouths and faces of the unsuspecting.
Southerners know that roaches fly; it’s not an uncommon site in places like Texas and Florida. But for New Yorkers, already afraid of rats scampering over their feet or pigeons shitting on their heads, the prospect of a roach flying into their face was just way too much. It’s the first sign of the apocalypse — the first horse-riding roach-man.
The summer I lived in Washington Heights, in a subletted apartment with the grossest, messiest roommate, I often encountered roaches in my supposedly safe-haven. I got into the habit of wearing shoes at all times, because there were just so many critters running around. Oftentimes, I would go turn on the kitchen light, and then immediately sprint as fast as humanly possible back to my room. I hoped that this would gave the roaches plenty of time to scamper back into darkness before I needed to boil water for my midnight cup of tea.
A few times the little Gregor Samsas didn’t leave, so I grabbed my highest pair of heels — white pumps to be exact — to gain some distance from the buggers. But, had I known or suspected that they could still fly at me, I would have had to take more extreme measures.
Yes, the idea of flying roaches is gross. Roaches on your face is slasher-level cut-off-your-own-hand-because-the-“plot”-calls-for-it gross. But beyond the grossness, the prospect of flying roaches is just one more layer of the shit that gets thrown at you living in New York.
I hazard to guess that everyone who has lived in New York for more than five years has had to clean pigeon poop off the crown of their head. I would bet that everyone has also found themselves accidentally stepping on a rat’s tail in the subways and awkwardly realized that the muffin they picked up off the ground for breakfast was actually a shrunken head. New York is a city that likes to throw as much at you as possible and laugh as you sulk away. But this time, flying roaches is just too much.
Perhaps the flying roaches are just the first plague of many to stop the brutal gentrification of Brooklyn. Next we’ll probably see rat-sized silverfish and rats the size of Central Park Carriage horses. Suddenly all the Mister Softie trucks serve cones of FroYo where the “yo” stands for the tears of failed yoga bloggers and all of the ACs will become sentient and laugh at us as we melt into puddles of sweat.
New Yorkers who don’t just immediately flee back to the fields of Iowa City will be forced to wake up at 4am to wait in line until 11am at Dominique Ansel Bakery for a cronut to hang over the door. Instead of eating it, it will be given as a sacrifice to the Angel of Death, who will deem it overrated anyways and feed it to the rats. The Angel of Death doesn’t give a shit about you anyways, you dumb sheeple.