It takes a week or so for a fly infestation to really gear up. At first, you simply notice that there are flies in the house. A day or so later, you notice that there are too many flies -- more than a "normal" amount for the average household. A couple of days after that, you're walking through thick, black clouds of viciously buzzing demons.

At least, that's been my experience recently.

Back when I lived at Irving School, hundreds of flies would pour in through the cracks around the windows every day at this time of year. Eventually, exterminators just hosed down the exterior of the building with bug dope every fall, because if they didn't, swarms of evil flies would invade, seeking warmth.

I figured this more recent case of fly drama had a similar cause, even though the windows here are new and totally insect-proof. I tried to keep everything locked up tight. Still, the flies kept increasing.

I went shopping in search of a solution. Everywhere I went, I found only two things -- high test chemicals for killing everything from roaches to scorpions (scorpions!), and sticky fly traps like those disgusting ribbons and whatnot. So I bought this orange pillar thing that was all sticky on the outside, and had pictures of flies all over it to trick the real flies into thinking that this was some kind of trendy fly nightclub or something.

Well, my flies apparently weren't the nightclubbing type. A few of them landed on the pillar and got stuck, but the vast majority showed no interest in that kind of gummy death. I thought about putting on some house music and twirling some glow-sticks, but decided against it.

After being pelted in the face by flying insects about 300 times this morning, I went back out into the world and found a milder, "indoor" chemical, made from orange peel extract, that carried no warnings about being toxic or deadly to humans (if I'm going to die from bug spray, I want it to be a surprise). I brought it home and sure enough, this greasy, citrusy junk will put a swarm of flies legs-up on the ground almost faster than you can squirt it on them.

As I was spraying the orange plague around my apartment, I thought about all the possible reasons for these flies being here. And that's when it dawned on me.

The potatoes.

In the corner of my pantry was a small bag of potatoes that has been there for a really, really long time. They're pushed back behind a Rubbermaid container, back in the corner I never think of.

It turns out that the nightmare growing in that corner will now be almost impossible to forget.

I summoned all of my will and headed toward the pantry. Whatever you do, don't look inside the bag, I told myself, over and over. I repeated it in my head about 10 times, and then, before I picked up the bag, I said it out loud again for good measure.

Whatever you do, don't look inside the bag.

Gingerly, I picked the bag up by its opening, taking care not to look at it too closely. As I was gathering the opening together to seal in the goodness, the contents shifted, spilling out a disgusting brown liquid, teeming with maggots.

Here's some advice: If you can live your whole life without ever having to use the word "teeming," you really should go ahead and do that.

I ran outside with the bag and threw it into the garbage. Then I came back inside to clean up the liquified potatoes and piles of maggots all over the floor.

It wasn't just the maggots, although the maggots were by far the worst part. The smell of rotten potatoes is, I truly believe, the worst smell on planet Earth. The military should bottle that smell and use it as a nonlethal weapon. Couple that with swarms of fly larvae and you've got yourself something special.

Grabbing some paper towels, I stepped back into the pantry. I took one look, then bolted to the bathroom and puked an entire Arby's Beef & Cheddar sandwich -- complete with Arby's sauce AND horsey sauce -- into the toilet.

It seemed that I was going to have to summon all of my will again, and then find some other will I might have forgotten about, to deal with this mess.

Once I do this, it's over, I told myself, feeling like a cowboy about to pull an arrow out of his chest, or a teenage prostitute about to turn her first trick. I gritted my teeth, ran into the pantry, wiped up the mess, threw the paper towels into the garbage and ran the garbage bag out to the alley. Then I came back in, poured straight Pine-Sol onto the floor and scrubbed away until I no longer felt like puking again.

And so folks, from now on I'll be keeping a closer eye on my kitchen. Additionally, it's going to be a long time before I can eat rice again. Or potatoes for that matter.

The very thought of it almost makes me lose my horsey sauce.