Picture this:

After a long hard week, I sink into a hot bath to soak my stresses away.


I casually reach my hand over the edge of the tub and find, there beside the soap, a menacing spider.

Startled, I somehow knock the monster into the tub.

So NOW the hideous icky thing is desperately doing the butterfly stroke toward my naked, defenseless body.

I leap up and shake myself brave. In desperate adrenaline driven self defense I take hold of the wash cloth and flick the soggy, hairy, bent-legged angry arachnid out of my bathwater and onto the tile floor.

It lands with a little splat, then drags its wet carcass around the tub and, I assume, down the vent.

All of this happens with my husband in the living room downstairs deafened by the TV and completely oblivious to my immanent peril.

Had the eight legged assassin killed me and greedily drained my vital fluids, he would not have known until he came to bed and found my desiccated corpse floating in the tub.

We need to install a panic button.

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