I’m a Bug in a Rug and This Is Actually Really Uncomfortable
What lunatic said this was “snug”?
Snug: tucked under a quilt on a rainy Sunday afternoon, cuddling a golden retriever puppy and sipping a steaming mug of hot chocolate, extra marshmallows.
Not so snug: trapped in an old rug stained with spilled hot chocolate and puppy puddles and shoved into the corner of your musty garage. Not a single marshmallow in sight.
I was minding my own business, flying from the windowsill to a delectable-looking framed photo of a sunflower, when the hypnotizing Persian rug pattern disoriented me into a nosedive. (That kind of intricate design is already an eyeful, so you can imagine how nightmarishly kaleidoscopic it looked through my compound eyes.)
There I was, antenna bent, wing torn, vision blurry, when the earth began to move beneath me. I thought it was an earthquake, but then the sky went dark. It was indeed the end of the world. Well, the world as I knew it.
Unfortunately it was only the start of this day from hell. I couldn’t move, could hardly breathe, as I was helplessly rolled up inside this medieval torture device you call an “area rug.” More like “hyst-area rug,” if you ask me.
Now here I am, unable to move even a millimeter, inhaling nasty feet fumes. Not exactly a scent you’d want in a candle (but maybe a good flavor for BeanBoozled, if anyone could put me in touch with their R and D).
But seriously. It’s dark and I’m scared…and hungry. I’m supposed to be savoring sweet nectar, not stuck in your dusty, dirty garage. I mean, c’mon, there are bugs out here. It gives me the creeps!
Oddly enough, I find myself dreaming not of freedom and wide-open skies, or that heavenly sunflower, but of being wound up in one of those lush, shaggy carpets instead. A chic white, charcoal-gray, or pastel-colored one would be preferred. You know, the kind that feels like deep-conditioned woolly mammoth hair between your toes. This flat, wiry texture is more like plastic than fabric. It’s scratchy, really. Did you at least get it on sale?
Which brings me to another question: Why are you keeping this rug here anyway? We both know you’re treating it like a container of leftovers from a mediocre meal you’re never going to eat. You’re not fooling anybug. Just give it up already and put this thing, and me, to the curb.
So, my honest, six-legged report: Snug? No way. Comfortable? Absolutely not. The tenth circle of hell? Bingo. Whoever coined this idiotic idiom was obviously not speaking from personal experience, so let me: don’t you dare utter this rhyming fallacy ever again. I’ll even offer a much more appropriate alternative for the next time you’re feeling all warm and cozy: “as snug as a bug in a hug.” I could sure use one right now.