MAGGOTWATCH '08

Sorry for the delay, folks. It's been just a madhouse. Anderson Cooper's people have set up his custom Airstream directly across the street. The neighbors are getting salty about the round-the-clock helicopter coverage. In the interest of bringing some journalistic credibility to Buggletown, I've reprinted (with permission, of course) Anderson's upcoming feature for 60 Minutes here, in its entirety:

It's early morning here in Buggletown, another typical day in this typical Southern California neighborhood. But as we take a closer look - or more accurately, a closer whiff - we're struck by the sense that something has gone horribly wrong in suburbia.

From the moment I open the front door of this small, mid-century tract home, I'm overwhelmed by the rotten stench of decay. Our cameras follow Bugglemama, a name she's given herself to avoid social ostracism, as she shuffles through her morning routine haphazardly, guiding herself and her two young children through a hazy stink nearly as palpable as the household clutter strewn about. She seems irritable, almost listless. When I ask Bugglemama about her plight, she's distracted, evasive.

"I don't have time for this. I mean, sure, there are people in like, Africa who would probably kill to have a roof over their heads that rains maggots. Whatever. Have you seen Bugglegirl's purple Croc?"

The doorbell rings. A lanky, uniformed man with a receding hairline and a passing resemblance to James Taylor is at the front door. It's Steve, the Bugglefamily's Terminix technician. A look of relief washes over Bugglemama. They have an understanding, she and Steve - an understanding that requires few words. The technician swiftly sets up his telescoping ladder and disappears into the recesses of the stifling attic after his prey.

Meanwhile, Bugglemama whirls about the house like a trauma surgeon on crack, addressing Buggleboy's spilled Cheerios and Bugglegirl's skid marks with a frenetic sense of monumental importance generally reserved for catastrophic natural disasters. One wonders: is self-destruction looming near? Is the seemingly never-ending parade of disease-ridden vermin combined with the strain of a grueling summer's end simply too much for one mother to bear?

Oh, the humanity.

Fewer than ten minutes later, Steve emerges from the attic, a recycled plastic grocery bag containing the wretched corpse dangling from his hand. He saunters casually to the kitchen to have the paperwork signed, but Bugglemama is transfixed by a raised, pinkish smear across the front of his khaki uniform. Unable to avert her eyes, she points out the innards in spite of the awkwardness.

Steve chuckles, "Oh, that. Don't worry. That's just my Jamba Juice. Strawberry banana," as he swipes a finger across his shirt. Bugglemama shares an uncomfortable laugh, pens her signature, and bids the Terminix guy farewell.

One can't help but ponder whether or not ordinary life in America will ever be quite the same.