The bashful, unsuspecting earthworm has been mistreated and abused from the time it was first seen wriggling out from its moist, earthen habitat. It has been smashed beneath the feet of malicious pedestrians, jabbed by fish hooks, loathed by even the most tolerant of humanity, and hung out to dry by sadistic little ten-year-olds looking for a quick thrill on a hot August afternoon. The gentle, innocent earthworm is totally undeserving of the shabby, miserable harassment it has had to endure for the last thousand or so years.
I, personally, wouldn’t touch a worm if you paid me a hundred bucks, but I have to give credit where credit is due. Worms are good for a lot of things. For instance, a worm is smart, especially in the romance department. It has metamorphosized the love-and-marriage game into a squabble-free, no-nonsense science.
Consider, for example, the pains and woes the human populace must suffer in the pursuit and apprehension of a suitable marriage partner. The male must ask himself a few tough questions: Are there going to be mother-in-law problems? Is she still going to want this much sex after we’re married? Yeah, she says she doesn’t mind me watching football, but what happens when it’s on TV six days a week? On the other hand, the female also has a handful of genuine concerns: Will his mother be butting her nose into my business? Is he going to want sex every day for the rest of his life? What about that damn obsession he has with football? The intelligent earthworm has done away with this time consuming, hunt-catch-and-hope method. The worm’s game plan is uncomplicated and direct. It simply marries itself. Worms are hermaphrodites and are capable of “marrying” and having children with or without an assisting mate. They have effectively revolutionized the entire concept of marriage, and have completely eliminated Saturday afternoon fights for control of the television set, quarrels over money matters, and constant agitation over which parent knows best when it comes to raising the kids. Wife Worm is happy; Husband Worm is happy; and neither has to listen to the old familiar, “Not tonight, Dear – I have a headache.”
A worm makes an ideal pet. Plop it into a good sized box of topsoil, water it once in a while, and sit back and reap the benefits of owning a pet worm rather than a dog, cat, or other bothersome critter. Your prudent, thoughtful earthworm will never park itself beneath the dining room table and make you feel guilty for refusing it a few French fries from your dinner plate. It won’t claw your draperies and bedspreads to shreds, and it doesn’t have to be trained to use a litter box. You’ll never discover your considerate pet worm curled up in the middle of your bedroom floor at night, hoping to surprise you on one of your frantic dashes to the bathroom, and it won’t rouse you in the wee hours of the morning, begging to be let outside to roam the neighborhood. One especially frugal reason for having a worm for a pet is the minimal expense. You never have to buy “Purina Worm Chow” at the downtown supermarket, and yearly rabies shots and veterinary bills are completely unnecessary.
Worms are extremely useful in matters requiring persuasive ingenuity. They have consistently retained first place in the top ten list of secret weapons ever since it was discovered that most little girls can’t stand the sight of them. For example, if eight-year-old Lucinda refuses to relinquish the chocolate ice cream cone she just purchased with her weekly allowance, little Billy will quickly make use of one of the three or four worms he always keeps handy in the hip pocket of his jeans. Lucinda is suddenly all in favor of handing over her ice cream to Billy, and it rarely ever takes more than one, “It’s gonna get ya!”
Worms are natural born generals and can brilliantly outmaneuver the most notorious of fishermen. A dedicated angler must be especially sneaky if he or she expects to snare a worthy amount of night crawlers for the next morning’s fishing excursion. A section of lawn must be well watered prior to dusk, and then left undisturbed until the early morning hours. The hunter’s equipment includes a bucket of damp dirt, a flashlight, and extremely dry hands. The “hunted” relies entirely on wit, strategy, and tactical ability.
Perhaps the best way to illustrate an actual worm hunt is by way of personal experience. Sneaking up on a worm in the dark of night is something everyone should try at least once. Some time ago, I did just that. Keeping in mind that I am one of those people with a natural-born abhorrence for worms, I agreed to help my brother, Mike, on a worm hunting escapade. I admit I was reluctant, but Mike promised me that I wouldn’t have to touch any of them; I’d only have to hold the bucket. I warned him that worm hunting sounded like no easy task, and tried to convince him to stop by the bait shop to buy a few worms if he wanted them so badly, but he stubbornly refused to consider my suggestion.
“Do you know how much fifty worms cost at the bait shop?” Mike argued, insinuating insanity on my part for proposing such a silly idea. “Stop worrying,” he promised, “this’ll be fun. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
I had a gut feeling that Mike didn’t know as much about worms as he thought he did. Nevertheless, at four o’clock the next morning the hunt began. I held the bucket, Mike held the flashlight, and the worms held all the cards.
The first intended victim was observed lounging about its quarters in total disregard of the advancing enemy troop. Mike quickly discovered that a worm is no slouch in the speed department. His first attempt did not go well. Tom (I named the worms as we went along) escaped far too easily, which is why I think Dale (attempt number two) loitered about her burrow just a bit longer before she disappeared. David, the next failed attempt, made a clean getaway but at least was sport enough to give Mike a head start before lamming out. After allowing Amanda to give him the slip, I was forced to remind Mike that one does not apprehend a worm while sitting on one’s ass on a wet, soggy lawn.
After about an hour and a half of unproductive worm hunting, Mike and his “sense of adventure” headed for the bait shop, and I hauled myself back to bed.
My sister had a friend, Ron, who took worm abuse to new heights. He always took a hypodermic needle along with him when he went fishing. As if the poor, defenseless worm hadn’t suffered enough, Ron insisted on inflating the worm with air until it resembled a balloon ready to burst. He claimed the air made the worm wiggle more in the water. I said he was nutty as a fruitcake. Hey – I can be as ruthless and dedicated as any fisherperson out there, but I know I always caught more fish with my cornmeal dough balls than he did with his puffed-up worms.
The never-satisfied human race has found yet one more way to punish the dignified worm. It has become a fad delicacy among thrill-seeking foodies. The supposedly protein-packed earthworm has been baked in cookies and pies, dried and rolled in sugar, and boiled alive. I remember reading somewhere that a pie made of earthworms tastes no different than one made of pecans. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I am unconditionally certain I will never know firsthand whether or not a worm tastes like a pecan.
I’m sure that one day there will be a new breed of bored, enthusiastic individuals hell-bent on finding better and more amusing forms of worm abuse. All I can say to that is, lest anyone forget Alfred Hitchcock’s "The Birds," the worm tormenters of the world better make damn sure the worms aren’t scheming to have a little fun of their own.
