WAUNETA BREEZE (Nebraska) 08 January 10 Cold-hearted when it comes to snakes (Dave Vrbas)

I adore nature.

But only when it stays outside and the heck away from me.

Finding delight in almost every little creature made by God’s hands, I still have to side with my good buddy Aaron Wade at the Hemingford Ledger regarding his personal struggles with odidiophobia, which were detailed in his personal column last week.

Yes, my friend Aaron and I are deathly afraid of caterpillars and the spine-chillingly horrifying butterflies they become after their larval stages.

Okay, that was just a blatant lie, of which I should be very ashamed. (Here’s a surprise though: I’m not.)

No really, along with the many other commonalities we share, Aaron and I are both mortified of snakes. Their beady little eyes and forked tongues that whip in and out from between their ruthless fangs, the slithery way they slime about all over the place, and the manner in which a particular member of their species conned Eve into snarfing down that apple from the naughty tree — all those traits are enough to convince us that they are THE worst critters on the planet.

Aaron, who tends to be a little more laid back than I could ever hope to be on any given day, actually gets a little more wigged out when he spots a slitherer. Exact words from his column: “In one instance I looked down to find a beheaded garter snake resting at my feet, which caused me to scream obscenities like a potty-mouthed little girl. When I came to my senses I found my neighbor on the other side of the fence watching the whole scene.”

The reactionary phase is the one moment, however, in which Aaron and I differ in dealing with our phobia. While I would pay good money to capture his reaction — either as a mental picture or on camera for future YouTube-ing — I believe my own reaction is quite different.

As soon as I see a ground glider, I become so incensed with a oh-no-I-know-you-di’int-just-choose-to-cross-my-hallowed-path-today rage that it borders on psychopathic.

Allow me to explain exactly why.

At our home in Grand Island, we had a mafia family of garter snakes that made unwelcome appearances at least once a week.

I was convinced for quite a while that they resided in the creepy-crawly crawl space under Casa De Vrbi — so convinced of that fact, actually, that despite desperately needing to scooch under there to insulate, I just couldn’t bring myself to find out what would happen if I combined a crippling claustrophobia with a rage-inducing odidiophobia.

The thought of becoming trapped in a cramped 3-foot area with garter snakes crawling on me still makes me short of breath (and somewhat angry) thinking about it today.

A typical snake sighting in GI would happen while I was working in the yard — but not always, as you’ll soon read. When I spotted one of those slimy lowlifes, I would take off on a dead sprint chasing after it with the lawnmower due to its convenient cleanup. The only time I ever regretted using a yard implement to end a snake’s life was the tiller incident. And that was just an unbelievably horrific, ugly mess.

Moving on... (shudders)

All this back story is actually leading up to a snake story so creep-tastic it still causes me to wake in the night with cold sweats. (Okay, who am I kidding? I wake up every night from sweats regardless. And that’s just due to me being nothing more than a sweaty beast of a guy.)

Anyhootie, on to this terrifying story. Shortly after my son was born, he was having a tummy issue that caused his first-time parents to contact the doctor after hours. The doc and my wife sent me off to the pharmacy for a bottle of Maalox. I trekked out across town and returned with Cherry Maalox since it was all they had left on the shelves. Here’s a quick screenplay of how the situation unfolded when I got home:

ME: (walking in the door with the bag, acknowledging that I need to quickly explain my purchase) “All they had left was Cherry Maalox, but I asked the pharmacist and she said it wouldn’t make a difference.”

MY WIFE: (turning and looking toward me) “OH MY GOD!”

ME: “Honey, she said it was fine. It’s not a big deal, in fact she said Jack might like the taste better. And it was all they had. Sorry.”

MY WIFE: (now as white as a sheet, but trying not to wake the baby now asleep in her arms) “DAVE. TURN. AROUND.”

As I pulled a graceful 180 in my size 10 flip flops, my eyes caught sight of a baby garter snake perched atop our front door jamb. Inside our house. Mere feet from my wife and newborn child. I have no idea how it arrived at that particular spot, nor do I even want to know how long the little Varmint From the Bowels of Hell had been hanging out there.

Swiftly seizing the broom from the kitchen, I took a violent swing at the snake, knocking it to the floor. As it looked up at me, stunned and disappointed by my (over)reaction to its presence, I swept it angrily out the door and down the front stoop. Chasing after it as it took off on a winding, spiny sprint across the front lawn, I was in a homicidal rage so deep I didn’t notice the folks strolling by on the sidewalk.

I was so furious that screaming the worst brand of curse words after a snake and attempting to pound it to death with a broom in front of innocent bystanders didn’t seem at all over-the-top. Sadly, the snake was so tiny, it probably wasn’t visible to those pedestrians, who were very likely fumbling for their mace.

So, now that I really think about it, I suppose Aaron, with his fear, and I, with my fury, really don’t differ much in our reactions.

They’re both totally acceptable.

And probably worth videotaping.
Cold-hearted when it comes to snakes

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• NE Press: Cold-hearted to snakes - W von Papineäu, Sun Jan 17 13:35:27 2010