It was just hours before the strangest Dodgers game I’m likely to watch — and a day before as typically impotent an offensive display as that team is likely to put on). It was not even 24 hours before the world celebrated with Spain that found my final fury with Pau Gasol.

Finally, it was happening: In moments I'd deliver on my promise to ingest an insect.

I fortified myself by saying, “Self, at least your helping to save the planet. It was that self-satisfied illusion, plus an opportunity to provide my seeds a lesson on the
importance
of keeping one’s word is. (The ceremonial bug eating also worked as a
lesson in why one shouldn’t make rash promises, but let’s focus on one
thing at a time.)

I’d really had a ladybug in mind, or nothing with separate thorax and head, at least. But while Wyatt and Forest and I
foraged through the front yard for an appetizer and my girl grilled the
main course on the grill in back, the option for a simple critter went
out the window. No ladybugs were found in the grass. And when I found a
roly-poly Wyatt objected, going to the brink of tears with his objections. “But they’re so cute, Dad! Don’t!" So that species was out.

(Wyatt’s a great kid, but, C’mon! What’s with the immaturity? He should be eating bugs at a third-grade level by now…)

“What about a bee?” asked Forrest, who was standing near a yellow curb-side flower.

And I was like, Yeah! ‘Cuz I damn sure wasn’t gobblin’ no fuckin’ cricket.

Last week, after a spectacular meal at Gonpachi,
I asked Katsuo Nagasawa fo advice on eating an insect, just because
online I'd some images of food with something like larvae atop it. Raw
like sushi. So it seemed good to ask. He just sat there mute though.
This guy had seemed to me a little like a genius, so if he ain’t have
no answers? Well, following through just got a notch harder. In need of
a motivation,
I went with the one that had worked so well in the past: Revenge.

A bee stung me in the foot last month. So I stepped on its cousin, scraped
him — gotta be a guy; I’d never kill a girl — off my flip-flop and carried
him to the kitchen.

“Oh my god, this is so exciting! It’s better than Disneyland!” squawked
Wyatt. Christ. When is this kid gonna grow up? asked the man who was about
to eat a bug, for the entertainment of his children.

(Don't
you envy the teams that don't even get past the first round of a
post-season? Those folks don't expose themselves to the desperation and
disappointment that's the natural fallout of failed title contention.
Ask the folks in Germany. The difference between a celebratory parade
and an unofficial national day of morning is the difference between
lighting and, um, a lightning bug.)

I had been asking myself whether it would be best to wrap my “food” in
cheese or douse it with with maple syrup, washing dirt down the drain all
of the while, when I noticed a stream of guts streaming out of the bug’s
butt. OMG, I am just too squeamish. This was not gonna happen.

Oh yes it was. Wyatt had just been led off to the bathroom to wash his
filthy hands when surge came over me like, “Aiight, fuck it.” And I ripped
a strip of American cheese from an individually-wrapped slice and rolled
it ‘round the bee so that it looked like a mini-taquito. The just chomped
down. Forrest jumped up and down, Wyatt moped like Disneyland had burned to the ground, and I simply survived.

I'm here to tell ya: that shit was mad nasty yo. Like American cheese with a big bug in the middle of it, actually. As Wendy Case accurately predicted, the whole transaction was a bit like crunch, crunch squish. Not the end of the world, but not at all pleasant, either. There it is. I like the Lakers to contend for the title next June. But don’t look for a promise or anything like one.