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I hold in my hand the famous Sphecius speciosus, the largest wasp in North America. It has a claymore for a stinger and, unlike its cousin, the bee, can inflict numerous wounds without self-injury.
Now, any child in west Texas knows what a locust is. (Do not google the map; that is any place west of Dallas.) In west Texas, locusts are fat stubby creatures that fly around like B-52 bombers and land in trees. They make a continuous buzzing sound by rubbing their wings together. You catch them by creeping up and clamping those vibrating propellers between your thumb and forefinger. When you let them go they chug-chug away at a speed not in excess of five miles per hour. You can tie a thread around their stubby little heads and make them fly about on a lease. They give no indication that they like this. Late in the summer one can find their ghostly skeletons attached to the woody branches of the trees. The occupant has ridden off into the sunset waiting to return the following summer in some new form.
Now, any child in west Texas knows that a grasshopper is one of those insects with long, jointed legs that can hop a long ways, fly a short ways, and spit “tobacco juice” in your hand if you go and catch one. Grasshoppers make great fishing bait as they wiggle on the hook and attract the surface-feeding fish. You put the hook through their little mesothoraxes (the hard, crusty part behind their heads). They do not like this, which very likely explains their wiggling.
Life is simple without education, whereby I learn that the grasshopper is really a locust and the locust is really a cicada. Knowledge can be confusing.
The cicada (aka locust to uneducated west Texas children) is like the sumo wrestler of the insect world. What could possible compare to its size? It’s a Goliath among Davids. Then along comes the Sphecius speciosus, otherwise known as the (Texas) Cicada Killer Wasp. The Cicada Killer Wasp leaps onto the back of the slow-moving cicada and strikes a paralyzing blow. The immobile cicada is dragged into the Killer’s cubbyhole underground where a little baby larva feeds upon the hapless victim. (Oh, the world is cruel when educated.)
These enormous Cicada Killer Wasps grow to almost two inches in length, as is the one I hold ever so gently in my hand, careful not to make the slightest flinch.
With a love for science, I carefully examine the Cicada Killer. Its body is not very hairy and it has enormous wings. It never sheaths its weapon, always cocked and ready to fire. In my case, I happen to have special knowledge of how to handle the Texas Cicada Killer; learning how to suppress pheromones is not for the fainthearted. The rusty head and yellow and black body markings make this a distinctive mammoth of a wasp, a giant among its brethren, an assassin by trade.
I’ve examined him enough. For my students in Chemistry, I think I shall experiment to see if the sting of this wasp has any paralyzing effect upon humans. I’ll just whack his little tail with my finger and see what