Death by Cricket.

One day I'll die.
It's a certifiable fact. There's no way out of it. You're going to die.
I'm going to die.

It's going to happen.

But the point is, today I figured out how it's going to go down.
There are three options:

A) I will be nonchalantly strolling on BYU campus when a killer grasshopper will unsuspectingly shoot out of the bushes and land on my pantleg. I will then die of fright and possibly crush the culprit in a dramatic death faint.

B) I will swallow a cricket in my sleep and choke to death.

C) I will be violently attacked by an orchestra of Mormon crickets while vacationing upon which time they will carry me into the forest. I'll never be heard from again.

*Sidenote* When I say an 'orchestra' of crickets, I do not mean a large group of musical insects who play instruments in a soothing and synchronized manner. That's really what a group of crickets is called. Don't believe me? Look it up.

To be safe, there is also option D, which involves being attacked by a horde of crickets/grasshoppers while sleepwalking on BYU campus at which point I will die of fright while simultaneously choking on one of the little beasts as they drag me into the bushes.

But those chances aren't as likely.

All I know is, that when I hear a rustle in the bushes or see any type of hopping bug in my path, time stops and my vision instantly magnifies by 200% until I see this staring at me...

Cue HORROR.

Sure, there are always exceptions.
For example, Jiminy Cricket sings about wishing on stars.
How menacing can that be?

And Crickee, on Mulan, is one lucky bug.

What you mean, a loser? How 'bout if I pop one of your antennas off and throw it across the yard? Then who's the loser, me or you?

On the other hand, further solidifying my argument, there is Hopper from A Bug's Life. That guy is truly evil incarnate.

I mean, look at his face!
ANGRY EYES with teeth all clenched and terrifying. (Do grasshoppers have teeth?... Great. Yet another thing to worry about.)

I attribute this acute aversion of all hopping pests to a certain childhood memory. Let me recite:

One day, Corinner-Elly was eating her lunch all happy and carefree-like. This was because she was eating a drumstick from one of her most favoritest places ever: KFC. She smiled and chewed and hummed and decided that the world was a good place and love was indeed fried. All too soon, she came to the end of her meal. Full to the brim and pleasantly satisfied, she leaned back to swallow the last few gulps of milk in her cup when, there, at the bottom of her glass, suddenly...

she saw IT.

Later, upon revival and subsequent hospitalization, she came to learn that a cricket infestation had taken place in the dishwasher earlier that month and she had become the unfortunate recipient of one of its casualties.

Or at least part of a casualty.

And that, dear children, is why Corinner-Elly was never able to eat KFC again. Or at least never accompanied by a glass of milk.

The End.