A few nights ago, while I was playing Dr. Kevorkian to my burgeoning fruit fly colony, I had a disturbing thought:
What if I've got it wrong?
What if, instead of extinguishing the colony, I'm culling the herd?
What if the fruit flies who haven't been sucked in to that oh-so-tempting styrofoam cup of nectar are somehow genetically superior to their stupider and now dead counterparts? Have I become responsible for the genesis of a generation of Super Flies, unswayed by the scent of something sweet, able to land on a bubble without being trapped?
I stewed on that for a few days. Exclusively. It was all I thought about.
No. Hell, no. Of course it wasn't all I thought about. Yeah, it crossed my mind a few times, whenever I entered the bathroom and saw the damn things congregating on the mirror.
So I tried a little experiment. Rinsed out the cup (Yes, I paused a moment to honor the fallen. Not.). Added a squirt of soap. Filled it with a couple of inches of water. Set it on the counter to see what would happen.
A few hours later, there were five flies, belly up, at the bottom of the cup.
Conclusion: fruit flies are stupid. All that worry about culling the herd for nothing.
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