An open letter to the Arachnid community, in particular, to shower spiders

Dear spiders,

It is well-known that there are those of your kinsmen who enjoy an early morning peregrination through the vast, cool expanses of porcelain and fiberglass that encompass the washroom. Among these so-called “shower spiders,” is one Stavros. You may have encountered him recently, spinning a tale of being wondrously transported far afield in a crystalline conveyance never previously encountered.

No doubt, some have dismissed his yarn as far-fetched, like something out of Jules Verne, or reacted as the miners and trappers did to John Colter’s early reports of Yellowstone. Stavros, they say, has been sipping fermented fruit juice or nibbling on hallucinogenic mushrooms.

I am here to confirm his tale, since it was I who slipped Stavros into a Mason jar and carried him outdoors. However, before even more of you venture into the lavatory to assess such wonders, I would also like to mention his colleague, Reinhardt. Some of you may not yet even be aware that Reinhardt is missing. He is, I regret to say, deceased, having passed from this life to a watery grave on a tide of scalding water I unleashed this very morning.

How is it, you ask, that Stavros miraculously survived, but Reinhardt did not? What was it about poor Reinhardt that threw me into a murderous disposition? My answer: mere chance. What happened to one, could have happened to the other.

To understand this, recall that when humans are unclothed, they are particularly vulnerable, not unlike when your species has just molted. We are, therefore, more easily spooked and disturbed. A gut reaction of reprisal is simple and instinctual, whereas and act of grace requires additional effort, not limited to getting dressed, searching for an appropriate vessel, and corralling the offending arachnid — all prior to being properly caffeinated.

It is this admonition then, that I wish to set before you. Though I am not by nature an assassin, it is far easier in my unclad, unawake, unguarded state to release an aqueous torrent of destruction than to provide one of your species with safe haven via a holiday expedition to the lawn.

In the future, therefore, if you find yourself transfixed by the vast ceramic expanse of the shower floor or the shining tiles that line it, ask yourself, “Will I be Stavros or Reinhardt? Reinhardt or Stavros?” The odds are not in your favor.

Sincerely,
The Management

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