I pretty much stick to a strict no-kill policy.

I capture bugs that get in the house and carefully take them outside to live a free and happy bug's life. I spared the life of that guy the emperor brought out of retirement just to kill me. Oh, wait.

I even refrained from killing one of our cats the night he walked into the TV room and, right before our very eyes, sprayed the freakin' surround sound receiver, frying the thing. That act of mercy, though, was because my wife, the Divine Ms. C, got in my way and I couldn't catch the little bugger.

I draw the line at two of God's creatures — forgive me, Lord — caca-roaches and mosquitoes. I'd put house flies on that list, too, except I usually can't catch them, either.

Caca-roaches deserve to die because, for no other reason, they are disgusting. Call me a roachist. Mosquitoes, however, suck the life's blood outta you and leave an itchy present that keeps on giving.

Like most people, I have an unpleasant history with mosquitoes. See, I spent the first 12 years of my life living in Port Arthur, Texas, the state's, um, exit for the large intestine.