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A Treasure Trove Of Bat-Killing Stories For Your Super Bowl Bye Week

Illustration for article titled A Treasure Trove Of Bat-Killing Stories For Your Super Bowl Bye Week

Drew Magary's Thursday Afternoon NFL Dick Joke Jamboroo runs every Thursday during the NFL season. Buy Drew's book, The Postmortal, through here. Find more of his stuff at his Twitter feed.

Ugh, the week before the week of the Super Bowl. What a shitty, awful, horrible time to be alive. There's not gonna be any real football on this Sunday (NOTE: Fuck the Pro Bowl), and that is awful. I feel dead inside. I feel as if my children have been taken from me and fed to some sort of giant dinosaur/alien hybrid. A DINO-ALIEN. This is the worst thing EVER.

But you know what will help us pass the time until next week, when we have exciting things like MEDIA DAY and RADIO INTERVIEWS WITH OLD SUPER BOWL HEROES WHO ARE NOW CRIPPLED? I'll tell you what will help: killin' bats and takin' shits. It's time for our annual POOPAROO. And this time, I've thrown in lots of bat-killing stories as well, just to enhance the flavor profiles. Let's go. If you need me, I'll be naked in my hotel room shower, crying like an assault victim.



The summer of my sophomore year of college I was living at home and working in DC. One night, I wake up in my room and hear a rustling sound. I was groggy and it takes a few minutes, but finally I realize something was flying around the ceiling. Then I see it pass by the window and shout the following: "It's a bat!" I jump out of bed, run into the hallway and shut the door. My dad (having heard my bat signal) comes out of his room, and we stand there trying to figure out how we're going to take care of this.

As we're standing there, the bat wiggles out under the door, flaps across my bare foot (it feels about the way you think it does: warm, kinda hairy and altogether awful) and starts flying around the hallway. My dad and I do the manly thing: immediately freak out, jump back into my room and close the door.

So now we're in my room and the bat is flying around the house dropping its possibly rabies-infested bat spittle (more on that below) on my brothers and sister. We summon up the courage to go out in the hall. Luckily, the bat flies back into my bedroom fairly quickly. I shut the door and put a towel under the door.

We strategerize for a few more minutes, and my dad decides he is going to get a fishing net from the garage and catch the bat in mid-flight. Now, I didn't think this plan had any chance of working, but it was better than nothing. So I trudge down to the garage and come back with the net. My dad takes it, I open the door, he steps in and (I swear to god) he catches the bat on the first swing. It was probably the most impressive thing I've ever seen him do. He flips it around the net a few times so it can't get out, then we take it outside and kill it with a brick. Take that, bat.

The good news is if you have the dead bat, they test it for rabies. This bat didn't have rabies, so no shots for me. But a buddy of mine had a bat in his house recently, and they didn't catch it. So he, his wife and their little girl all had to go through the rabies shout routine because there was a large rabies outbreak in upstate NY and there was a chance the bat had dropped bat spit (or something worse) into one of their mouths while they were sleeping. This is actually what the doctor told them. That's just horrifying. Good luck sleeping tonight.


I am an 8th grade coach.

One week last year we took a team to a game 90 miles away. We had JUUUUUUUST too many for one charter (diesel bus, much nicer than the usual Yellow Dog) and nowhere near enough to justify taking two, so another coach and I took the athletic director's suburban, and two student managers rode with us.

On the way home, about ten miles from the nearest town, it hit me hard. I floored it, doing 90 with two kids in the back. Screeched into the Allsups, jumped out, and barely made it... inside the bathroom. Before I could get my shorts down I just started POOPING. EVERYWHERE. Not the runs, either; just huge, wet piles of poo, smeared on the wall, in giant mounds on the floor, ALL OVER my ass, legs, shoes.

Sat down and smeared poo all over the toilet. Got my shorts off, tossed the underwear but had to keep the shorts, a light yellow Under Armour short COVERED in poo ALL OVER: front, back, inside, outside. Like Jackson Pollack's worst nightmare.

Scraped the crap off my legs and ass, washed my hands, but my shorts are just a wet, nasty poop-covered loincloth.

Leave the bathroom with PILES of steaming crap everywhere. Walk through the store and the brightly lit parking lot to the suburban, where another coach and two KIDS await. Slink into the driver's seat and shut the door.

That's when the stench hit like a punch in the face. Smelled like an overturned port-a-potty. I cracked the window and hauled ass the final 60 miles. SIXTY MILES. The window helped the smell but it was COLD (November). The other guy kept cranking the heater up, shivering.

Dropped them off at the jr high, then dropped off the Suburban at the boss's house. He (A.D.) was taking it the next night to a game. It REEKED.



In college, I lived in a house that has since been condemned. My "handy" roommate decided to renovate the bathroom on the top floor... naturally this meant knocking out the ceiling to add tiling for the shower. What it also accomplished was creating a portal to the netherworld: the previously-sealed attic of a hundred-year-old house.

The first sighting was the next morning. I go to take a shower (the tub was still intact, but with a garbage bag instead of a curtain) and there's a bat, chilling by the drain. I think it was looking for water... and being that it was daylight, it was sleeping. I have never been so disarmed in my life. I threw a trash can over the top of it and proceeded to take a 10 second shower... for some reason I was terrified of even trying to get it out of the house, so I just held the trash can down with my foot and lathered up.

We saw one in the bathroom the next day, but it escaped up into the attic (the hole was only about a foot across). Then I saw one in the washing machine. That was easy... I just shut the lid and hit the spin cycle. On Thanksgiving morning, I found one hanging in the doorjamb. I've never slammed a door harder while screaming bloody murder. The sounds these things make... they are not of this world.

The pinnacle moment in our fight against the bats occurred at, of all places, a McDonald's. My roommate arrived in few minutes in front of me, and was maybe 5 people ahead in line. As he orders his two-for-two deal, he reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out his wallet. He retrieves a still sleeping bat. He drops it to the ground, and casually slides away. The bat wakes up and begins flapping its wings on the ground. My roommate has now moved a few feet away, and is facing the counter, just casually waiting for his order. The restaurant, naturally, explodes in screams. The guy behind the counter shouts "Someone git me a bag, we got a bat!" They sweep the thing up into one of those big breakfast bags and throw it into the parking lot. Almost every customer had fled out the back door.

We went back home to get a handle on this problem. I stood on a chair and put my head up through the hole. My roommate handed me a flashlight... The sight I witnessed should never be seen by any human. There were literally HUNDREDS of bats in the attic, every beam seemed to be covered with the sleeping vermin. Apparently they had been using the attic as a nesting ground for years... and we just happened to open the gate. We put a piece of plywood over the hole that night, and never saw another one. Ah, college.



One night when I was in high school, probably around 2003, my dad and I were out running errands because I wasn't cool enough to be out drinking yet. We got a call from my mom saying we need to "COME HOME RIGHT NOW THERE'S A BAT IN THE HOUSE!" Dad whips the minivan around "Dukes of Hazzard" style and we start speeding home. Our house is a split-level so the living room is basically its own floor. My mom and sister, who was about 12 at the time, used a bed sheet to cover the opening of the stairs going up from the living room to the kitchen, creating a Bat Combat Zone for me and my old man to conquer the beast that lay within.

Using his Dad-animal-trapping instincts, my dad immediately grabs a broom and arms me with a bucket. No instructions were given. We duck under the bed sheet and descend the five steps down to the Evil Bat Headquarters that was once my living room. My dad spots the bat hanging in a corner of the room and IT'S FUCKING ON. In one broom swing, my pops knocks that little nocturnal bastard to the ground and I dive on it with the bucket like a fumble in the goddamn Super Bowl. The bat bangs against the walls of the upside-down bucket trying to escape and makes all kinds of awful screeching noises for the next couple minutes (I think this is what caused my long-term irrational fear of bats). Meanwhile, my dad gets one of his old vinyl records from the basement, calmly slides it under the bucket and yells up to my mom and sister (still hiding behind the bed sheet) that the scene is safe. I open the back door and he walks out carrying our bat trap and lets it fly away into the night while I watch from inside with my mom and sister, silently praying that the Evil Beast of the Night Sky never returns.

This is easily the smoothest, most badass thing I've ever seen my old man do. Just straight-up dad adrenaline.



Back in 2009, I was hitching a ride back home from a wedding with some friends. My recently married sober buddy (the driver) and his incredibly sober wife are up front, my intoxicated self and my equally drunk friend are in back. When we get in the car, the driver says something like, "Just be careful, this is a new car." Sure thing. I spend most of the ride pretending to be sober, mostly to cover for my blacked-out friend. We make it 3/4 of the way there, and I think we're doing a great job being "normal" people for this guy and his wife, when I notice my friend start heaving and making gagging noises. I tell the driver to pull over, and when I get back the standard "Why?" I start yelling "PULL OVER PULL OVER." At this point, it's really getting there for my friend, so I make the one decision I know I need to make in my drunken state - I cup my hands beneath my friends mouth and proceed to catch his puked up wedding meal. I'd like to think I got 70-80% of it. I remember getting really excited and yelling something about "protecting the upholstery!", probably while this guy's wife was wondering why her husband had such fuck-ups for friends.



Summer after my senior year in high school, five of us worked as ‘janitors' fixing up the elementary school and getting it ready for the next school year. The school owned an old high school gymnasium that sat right in the middle of a residential neighborhood in the small town. The basement of that gymnasium also housed the personal wood shop of the school superintendent. One day, the superintendent – who knew our janitorial skills were limited – asked us to take care of the bat problem in the old gymnasium. He wanted them gone, no questions asked. The guy had to have been losing his marbles. Who in their right mind thinks it's a good idea to ask a bunch of 18 year old guys to exterminate bats in a city-owned building?

We made a hasty plan and set it into action at 11 PM that night. We were armed with .22's (with bird shot) and tennis rackets. The plan was simple and surprisingly effective. We turned the lights off in the gym; when the bats began to fly, we flicked the lights back on and went out and played bat tennis on the low flying varmints. If the bats went back up to roost, we brought out the guns and our snipers started picking them off. (For the record, two of the guys were ridiculously good shots. One of them even shot a bat in mid-flight, which remains one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. I didn't even touch the guns as I knew I'd shoot my eye out.) When the guns went off, the bats went back to swooping down and the tennis rackets again became the weapon of choice. The thud of a bat against a tennis racket is definitive and final. We were too young and bored to consider the fact that this hunt could lead to one of us getting shot or infected with bat syphilis.

All told we killed 18 bats that night. We were so proud of ourselves that we put all the carcasses in a black garbage sack and left it in the basement to show the superintendent. After finding out that he didn't want to see the evidence, we went back to dispose of the kill TWO DAYS later and my friend, upon gathering the sack up, squished out all the decaying bat stench. He puked but good.



It was the Sunday of the first weekend of the 2009 NCAA Tournament , and we had just finished up dinner as Siena was fighting tooth and nail with #1 overall seed Louisville. All of a sudden – blood curdling screams from the kitchen from my wife, mother in-law, sister in-law, and wife's Aunt. I turn just in time to see the bat come whooshing over my head, circle the room a few times, and then dive-bomb under our couch. I'm uncertain how to proceed. The previously mentioned women are now all face-down on the kitchen floor, screaming out questions and instructions simultaneously. My wife's cousin (the only other male in the house at the time) has been sequestered in the bathroom helping my then 2 year-old daughter wash her hands. She is now flipping out as well and we all try to assure her that everything is okay and that there is a "birdie" in the house. "I want to see the birdie" she exclaims and is now trying to escape the bathroom. Wife's cousin is ill-equipped for this role, and I am certainly desperate for a wing-man in my bat removing crusade, so my sister in-law proceeds to commando crawl across the floor to the bathroom.

Now it's two-on-one against the still-dormant bat. Not sure if he survived his dive-bomb, we decide to sweep at him with a broomstick and are prepared with a bucket to capture the rodent. Unfortunately for us, the bat had been playing possum, was clearly annoyed by the whack to the side of the head, and proceeds to roar to life and do laps around the ceiling of my house like Dale Earnhardt. Blood curdling screams from the kitchen floor resume (and from the bat wranglers as well), and are now complemented by sounds of my then-pregnant wife puking all over the kitchen floor. Daughter is still trying to break out of the bathroom to see the birdie. It was quite the shit-show. We finally corner the bat (he got tired) in one section of the house and devise a plan: I'll run towards it with the broomstick while my wife's cousin waits near the open front-door with a tennis racket. I say a few Hail Mary's and sprint towards the bat like Usain Bolt. Plan works to perfection, the bat heads straight for the door and is swiftly Bjorn Bjorg'd onto the lawn. The whole ordeal lasted about 5 minutes – felt like 5 hours. My daughter still wants to know why she couldn't see the birdie that day.



It was the summer of '09 and I worked at a Boy Scout camp in northern Wisconsin. I worked in the nature lodge, which was a large wooden building that was fairly open and had a large patio. The main problem with the patio was that it allowed bats to come and go like it was a nightclub. Seriously, every morning I'd go to work there would be bat shit fucking EVERYWHERE.

One day, I and my 4 coworkers decided we had had enough, the bats had to go. They lived up in the rafters, in some tiny-ass cracks between wooden beams. In order to get them out, we stapled some tree bark to a large stick and set it on fire, to smoke them out. It worked perfectly, and soon we had 2-3 bats at a time flying around the room, up towards the ceiling.

Next came the catching procedure. Being the nature lodge, we had some butterfly nets laying around. We made it look manly (even though two of us were girls), and caught those fuckers. Of course, the net is nonlethal.

This is where I come in, I was on murder detail - the bat Gestapo if you will. I had a broken boat paddle borrowed from the waterfront staff, and it was my job to mash those fuckers good.

At one point I was too slow, and one of the ladies decided to take the deed upon herself, and stomped on a bat with her foot. This caused the bat's heart to fly out of its body and lay on the floor, still beating in a pool of blood. While this was happening, Final Countdown was playing.

The final victim was what I assumed was the alpha male. He was one big mother fucker, and by the time we got to him our smoke stick was used up. I had to prod him out with my paddle. He fell right on fucking top of me, and before I ended his life I saw a huge, erect bat dick pointing right up at me. Needless to say, I felt violated and enjoyed snuffing out his life.

We killed 36 bats that day. Men, women, and children. I have no remorse. Am I a monster?



When I was younger my Mom and Dad divorced and I lived with my Mom and her new boyfriend named Bill. Bill was an Army vet with three purple hearts and more scars on his naked body than Seal and the Joker combined (yes, I saw his naked body more times than I cared to count. Bill was NOT SHY.) We lived in a townhouse complex with a completely unrealistic bat problem. We probably had a bat invasion once every two weeks. Bill was not pleased. He had exterminating them down to a science: Catch the bat in a towel, then throw it out the door. Well after about a half dozen of these fuckers had scared the piss out of us at 2 a.m., Bill was fed up. One night he caught one in the bat-towel and decided to dispose of it by HITTING IT WITH A HAMMER. To this day, I can still hear the shrill squealing this animal made as its tiny body was crushed by Bullhorn Bill's Meat Mallet. TRAUMATIZING. I guess I should have expected such behavior out of a guy with 47-some confirmed kills.



In October 2009 I lived with a couple of friends on the north side of Chicago. Repeat: Chicago. One night while folding up some laundry, I noticed what looked like a scorpion on my bedroom floor. Without processing what I was seeing I kind of nudged it with my foot (wearing flip-flops) and HOLY SHIT THE STINGER IS HEADED FOR MY BIG TOE. The next 30 seconds were a blur of me repeatedly half-yelling "what the fuuuuuuck" and hammering the thing with my sandal until I was sure it was dead (see picture). Now I had to deal with the absolute mindfuck that came with finding an animal from at least 1,000 miles away in my 3rd story apartment. After some investigation, we finally figured out how it got there: my roommate had gotten back from a trip to Costa Rica (stayed in a small villa) a couple of days before, and the scorpion managed to crawl into his bag and make it all the way back in his clothes, then transferred to my stuff in the dryer. I'm pretty sure if it had made it into my bed or been folded into some T-shirt I would be in an asylum right now. Have to give credit though, the little fella sure did make it a long way just to get unceremoniously beat to death. Hell of a run.

Illustration for article titled A Treasure Trove Of Bat-Killing Stories For Your Super Bowl Bye Week



When I was about 16 years old, I saw a decent-sized spider crawling on the floor. Although I hate spiders (second only to snakes), this spider didn't worry me too much. I figured I'd smash it with a shoe and flush it down the toilet like my normal procedure. However, right after smashing the spider about 15 or more baby spiders spread in all directions at the speed of light. I frantically tried to smash all the babies while I had the chance. It probably looked like I was playing "Whack a Mole". The babies were similar in color to my carpet making me scared that I wouldn't get them all. To make matters worse, this all took place right next to my bed. For the next few days, I had nightmares about baby spiders crawling up my nose or on my eyelids while I slept.



Spring semester of my junior year of college I studied abroad in Temple University Rome. One of the professors at my school's Rome campus was married to a man from Tunisia, and as a break from the normal study abroad Spring Break trip (getting drunk in london, paris, berlin etc.) she would take a group of students on a week-long tour of Tunisia. (only a 45 minute flight south) On the second to last day of the trip, we went to the town of Douz to see a date palm oasis, which is a basically a beautiful shaded area of palm trees that grow dates. We were walking around finding out how the dates are harvested and taking in the scenery, and a man showed us how they get the dates down from the top of the tree. A man whistles at a young boy, who sprinted over, barefoot, and climbed up about a 35 foot tree in 5 seconds, IT WAS INCREDIBLE. He got all the dates down from the tree and we purchased them at what was probably 15 cents a pound. (The Tunisian currency is the Dinar.)

I hadn't eaten breakfast and these little things were tasty so on the walk back to town I ate about 15 of these fresh, sugary little delights. The problem was I missed the announcement when they said "Hey guys don't eat more than 3 or 4, they go right through you!" Translation- you WILL get diarrhea if you eat too many. Me, being the cocky idiot that I am, claimed I had an iron stomach and that I rarely felt the effects of any food I ate, and would be fine. For lunch I had what was either a spicy chicken or a dromedary sandwich. Between the dates and that sandwich by the time we all loaded into SUV's for the next tour of a mountain oasis, I am starting to feel like I am either going to explode vomit out of my mouth or poop out of my butthole very, very soon.

We took an hour long, very bumpy SUV ride into the desert to a mountain oasis, complete with waterfalls and cliffs and streams. I sprinted into the little shack of a gift shop and just yelled "BATHROOM???!!!" Thankfully someone knew what I was yearning and pointed to a room in the back, it was just a toilet, no stall, no walls, no door, just a toilet in the middle of a room and one shitty sink. I went in there and just unloaded a copious amount of middle eastern diarrhea in that toilet, the noise echoing off the walls. While I was about 2/3rds through the shit two man just WALKED IN THE BATHROOM and began washing their faces. I froze, acting as if I didn't move they would not notice me. They spoke in Arabic, washed themselves for about 2 minutes, and walked out, never acknowledging that there was a sweaty, 24- pound American wearing a baby blue Philadelphia Phillies t-shirt and losing a battle with diarrhea no more than ten feet from them in plain view. I will never be able to fully express how uncomfortable I was while those two men were in there.

I finally finished, very relieved, and walked to meet my fellow students and our tour guide, Moonir. When I finally found them, I was at the top of a very large rock structure and they were all the way at the bottom. Moonir spotted me and said "HELLO JEFF, HOW IS-A YOUR STOMACH?" And everyone laughed at me. Feeling ashamed but much better yelled from the top of this rock structure "Moonir...shut the fuck UP!" And everyone laughed even harder. The rest of the semester I was the dude with diarrhea. If you're ever in eating dates in Tunisia, have some self control and limit yourself to 4, or make sure you know the bathroom situation prior to eating them.

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