So the latest thing we’re supposed to worry about is the Cicadapocalypse as the 13-year and 17-year broods emerge at once for the first time since 1803.
In certain parts of the Midwest, they’re going to have a very crunchy time once the weather warms up enough for the cicadas, sometime in May or June.
“2024 will be a particularly special year as Brood XIII (Northern Illinois Brood) and Brood XIX (Great Southern Brood) will emerge at the same time,” Popular Mechanics reported, “and because of their close proximity, these cicadas will likely encounter each other once they emerge.”
Aside from being tasty — or so I’m told by the same Davos-types who don’t want us proles to enjoy juicy ribeyes — cicadas can also be shockingly funny.
True story.
My first year at Missouri Military Academy wasn’t easy. I suspect switching to a military high school rarely is, but I was one of just two mid-year transfers. It’s hard enough when you’re beginning a new way of living along with 80 other recruits. Being one of only two noobs in the middle of January positively sucks, trust me.
(Cicadas are coming back into this column, I swear, but this story requires some set-up.)
While I got along with most of the cadet officers, my company commander and I frequently butted heads. That his rank — captain to my private — meant I’d always lose took a while to sink in. To protect the innocent (or nearly so) I’ll call him Capt. Scott Sherman.
I did manage to get in small victories, like every Sunday during Review. Review was our weekly dress-blues parade. There was usually some award being pinned on, and the school’s four companies were always in competition with one another over our performance — staying formation, rifle drills, uniforms, etc.
I was in 1st Squad, 2nd Platoon of Echo Company, which meant I stood front-row center when Sherman turned around to face his company after we’d marched out to the parade ground. And every single Sunday I would stand there, staring him down. I wasn’t doing anything technically wrong — just staring without blinking until he’d look away or blink first.
VICTORY!
Then came the spring thaw and, along with it, a cicada infestation the likes of which I haven’t seen before or since. You can look it up (it’s a boring read) or you can just trust me when I tell you that cicadas in 1985 Missouri were a very big deal. You could hardly take a step without the quickly familiar “crack-crunch” under your just-shined shoes.
The cicadas were still around on Mother’s Day when moms flew in from all over the country (and even a few foreign nations) to see their sons march in Review in their honor. It was a very big deal, and even slackers like myself would put a little extra shine on our shoes on our brass.
There I was, standing at parade rest and staring down Capt. Sherman, waiting for him to blink first. But before that could happen, he had to call us to attention as the faculty brass marched past in inspection.
“COM… PANY!” Capt. Sherman shouted the preparatory command before calling us to attention.
“PLATOON!” his three platoon leaders echoed.
“A-TEN-HUT!” is what Sherman should have said next but didn’t.
Sherman got the “A-TEN” out but at the exact moment his mouth was opened widest on “TEN,” a cicada flew right in there. I was still staring at him, seeing it all happen. I saw the cicada enter my field of vision at about 2 o’clock and into that poor kid’s mouth barely more than a second later.
In front of all of those moms who had traveled far and wide just to watch this parade, Sherman shouted, “A-TEN… [spat out cicada] S**T!“
Oh man, did Echo Company snap to attention anyway.
Looking back, I feel bad for Scott. But at that moment, I had never laughed so hard in my life. More importantly, for the sake of staying out of trouble, I laughed while forcing myself to remain at perfect attention. My ribs ached from the effort. There were real tears on my face. But all those times he’d written me up for some martinet BS reason had just been paid back — with a 30% tip.
I know they’re annoying and, this year, doubly so. But I will always have a soft spot for cicadas — just don’t ask me, or Scott Sherman, to eat any.
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