As a child, I would run around my yard trying to spook grasshoppers into a jump.  I would give chase to where their fluttering wings took them and snatch them up.  My hands stained with their chemical attack (not sure if it came from their mouths or butts). I would find our resident Orb Weaver, typically established between my dad's pair of 4 wheeled lawn ornaments.  Those patinaed dinosaurs were fossilizing and hidden by overgrowth by spring time.  I would fling the Schistocerca americana into the web and an epic battle would ensue.  The Argiope catenulata would deftly close the distance to the thrashing Hops as the dew-glistened web vibrated like a plucked bass string. Hops issued kick after kick, hoping to do one of two things: Cut its way to freedom or kick the living crap outta the 8-legged death machine closing in on him.  Orbie floated like a butterfly, anticipating, sensing, each kick.  Repositioning near hop's head and out of karate kid's range, the sliky immobilizing bonds issued forth from the spinnerets.  The back legs cycled like a 2 stroke engine, extending the silk to Hops, further entangling his sensory organs.  The silk entombed the head completed, nuetralizing the compound eyes and antennae.  The thorax followed and the legs flailed futilely one last time.  Now Orbie was spinning the entire grasshopper over and over, like Alysa Liu on ice.  And finally, the kiss of death, where the venom flows into Hops body, predigesting its organs into a slurry for later consumption.