Each year an estimated 6 million American kids become infested with head lice.  There's now evidence that many of these lice are becoming increasingly resistant to the chemicals used most often to send them to that Great Big Hairball in the Sky.  This has left kids, parents, and scientists alike scratching their heads and wondering what to do next.
     Not me.  I was a liberal arts major.  Instead of trying to better the lives of others by inventing a new and better way to kill a fellow life form, I'm much more inclined to just sit back and reflect back on those days when people rarely bathed, lice were everywhere, and poets like Chaucer penned poems in praise of the little guys' affection for man, their retiring nature, and their faithfulness.  As Shakespeare himself once wrote, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's infestation of pediculus humanus capitis?  Fine.  The pediculus may cling annoyingly to my scalp and suck an occasional drop of blood but at least it has never slapped me with a paternity suit, tricked me into marriage, or sued for alimony."
     The fact is, we owe a great debt to our lice, our fleas, our ticks, and our mites.  Human eyesight may well have evolved into its current fine form in response to our need to see just what the heck was eating us.  And it just so happens that reading small print on a different color background isn't so different from chasing little bugs across hair and skin (though I'm told that the bugs tend to leave less of a sour aftertaste in the mouth than one of my entries). 
     So: If you can read this, thank a louse indeed! 
     Go ahead - I'll wait.
     Oh, but just remember: Despite the crucial role lice may have played in the writing and reading of this entry, the opinions expressed herein are not necessarily those of the parasite nearest you!

     As it turns out, the contributions of lice and our other personal fauna to our lives may go far beyond the ability to focus on small crawlies and underwear size tags alike.  They actually seem to have spiced up my sex life as well!
     Now before any cop reading this at his desk between instant messages to Honeybunns69 can jump to his feet and organize some sort of unsportsmanlike sting operation against me involving the dressing up of a female member of the department in lice-infested clothing, let me add that I mean they have spiced up my sex life in a general way.
     In fact, if some biologists are to be believed, the only reason sex exists at all is because of parasites.  The theory goes that the exchange of genetic material commonly known by the slang term "Making whoopee!" has allowed us to create offspring just different enough from ourselves so as to keep these parasites guessing.  Asexual reproduction which merely churns out identical copies of the parent organism, in contrast, would leave us sitting ducks for every flesh-eating beastie that came along.  That "whoopee" (or "whoop" in scientific shorthand)  just happens to be a heck of a lot more fun than slowly splitting down the middle all alone in our room on a Saturday night is a nice little bonus I'm grateful to acknowledge.
     So if you get a chance, take a louse to lunch today instead of reaching for that deadly permethrin.  It's only fair.  After all, how many full dinners have you taken somebody to and gotten much, much less back in return?
     And even if those biologists are wrong and lice had absolutely nothing to do with the evolution of sex, it's been my experience that even the least educated of parasites are better mealtime conversationalists than the average relative....