“In Your Face,” by Bob Lorentson

Sep 16th, 2020 | By | Category: Nonfiction, Prose

I can barely stand to say this, much less write about it, but I think it’s fair to warn you that our faces are infested with mites. There, I said it. I stumbled across this unnerving information in the reputable magazine where I read it, and thought it my duty to pass it along.

It gets better. These mites are microscopic critters with eight legs that burrow headfirst into our pores and stay there for the rest of their lives. Scientists don’t know why they do this, though it seems pretty clear to me they do it because they are ashamed of their own behavior and can’t look us in the face. At least not in the proper fashion. Of course it also means that at any given moment there are hundreds of thousands of these disgusting things waving their asses at us every time we look in the mirror. Ha! Fooled you. They don’t have anuses. Thank God for small favors, but this does raise a few other questions.

It gets still better. These critters are arachnids, which means they’re in the spider and tick family. If that was my family, I would have run away at a very early age, for nothing good ever comes of it. Case in point – at night while we sleep, hundreds of thousands of these mites gather at our pore’s openings – and have sex! Right there on our faces! Now I hate to criticize a whole species because of their loose morals, especially when scientists don’t fully understand their lives or their family dynamics, but c’mon! Where are their parents?

And speaking of scientists again, what kind of respectable scientist would study face mites when there is no shortage of decent, wholesome animals to study? And then go and publish the results of their studies in respectable magazines for any unsuspecting reader to trip over. Where were these scientists parents when they needed them?

Well, at this point the cat is out of the bag. I suggest we drop the whole thing and go on with our lives as if microscopic, orgiastic, feces bloated spider-like monstrosities were not infesting every pore of our faces for reasons we don’t understand.


Bob Lorentson was formerly an environmental scientist, but with the passing of both the environment and science, he has nothing to do but write about the good old days. Stories and poems have appeared in Drunk Monkeys, Literary Orphans, The Menda City Review, New Pop Lit, and assorted other publications. He lives in Connecticut with his wife, son, and two rescue animals.

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