Momma always said you can't trust a retarded reptile

You know what I hate? Snakes. They're slimy, slithery, sneaky little creatures and I'm about ready for them to become extinct. I know that sounds mean, but come on. They're gross. And let's not forget dangerous.

I love to hike. I do it almost every morning, with very few exceptions. But now that it's getting hotter in lovely HELL, errr...I mean, Phoenix, I can hardly get a few steps in before seeing a rotten-ass SNAKE! Some might argue that the desert is their home and that I'm merely a visitor. To that, I would respond, "well, when snakes start paying taxes to support things like Parks and Rec Trail Maintenance, then we can cohabitate. Until then, OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!"

The other day, my hike was cut short by a trail-hogging snake. He was stretched out the length of the trail, and with a cliff on one side and mountain-side on the other side, I could not get around him without jeapardizing my safety. He looked like a rattle snake, but I could see no sign of a rattler on him. My husband later told me that it was more likely a King Snake. He indicated that King Snakes are "harmless" (read: my wife is a big baby). I can hardly trust that this particular creature was benign given he was dubbed a "KING". He must rule over something to have gotten that name, right?

Here is what he looked like:

What a hideous bastard, huh?

Some people tell me not to worry; that snakes are more afraid of me than I am of them. To this sentiment, I add "in general." That is, "in general they're more afraid." Because I'm a glass-is-half-empty kind of girl, and I always think about the minority -- the reptilian anomalies. This would include special needs snakes who were oxygen deprived during birth. The ones for whom instinct doesn't come so easy.

So, yes, I could have probably catapulted my self over the snake that blocked the trail during my hike last week, but I was concerned that he might be one of those "freaks of nature" mentioned above. I pictured his anxiety rising sharply as I approached, imagined what he was probably saying in his little reptilian tard head:

Large, amazon lady coming at me. What did momma tell me? What did she tell me? Ohhhhh. What was it? It was either 'run like hell' or 'sink my venom into the amazon lady's fleshy ankle.' Which one... which one. I'm thinkin' momma said 'sink my venom into the lady.' Yeah, that sounds right. Yeah, let's go with that. Chomp..."

And so, were it not for the quick-thinking actions of yours truly, I may not have lived to tell this frightening, and let's not forget, RIVETING story of survival.