Joel, bless his heart, is my knight in shining armor in many ways, but he will NOT kill my spiders unless I beg and plead. He claims that he doesn't like killing spiders any more than I do. I beg to differ, because I would rather shave my head and splash aftershave on my pale, pink scalp than have a spider touch me, and I doubt he can say the same.
Anyways, so I'm on the john the other day, and I notice that three spiders of the large and hairy variety are having a bit of a powwow over in the corner. I'm not sure if Joel is home, and even if he is, the odds of him coming to my rescue (see previous paragraph) are slim. Drawing on a trick I learned in my second year of college, when I lived in the spideriest basement suite of all and was the Resident Assistant (read: Designated Spider-Killer), I haul out my huge can of hairspray. Hairspray doesn't kill spiders in the same way that Windex kills ants, but it does sloooooooowwwwwwwww themmmmmmmm dowwwwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnnn so that you can kill them at your leisure. See, it's the skittering of the spider that makes it scary. A hairsprayed spider does not skitter (you have to wait a second for the hairspray to coagulate, and that is a scary second, but if you stand on the toilet you should be ok).
So that's three less spiders in the world. Having done my duty to society, I feel that I deserve a bonbon of some sort.