War of The Ants
Dear Ant Colony,
Your efforts to gain entry into my home and eat my muffins have been futile. I am human. I have bug spray and can fuck you up. How would you like it if I entered your home without permission, ate your muffins, then crawled all over your kitchen and laundry? Didn’t your Queen ever teach you any manners?
As the sun was going down and light rain was falling, I set a trap to catch you unaware. I dropped a chocolate biscuit upon the ground and then acted all coy, as if I didn’t notice it fall from my hand. Alas, it was all part of my devious chocolatey plan. As night fell, you scampered to grab crumbs of the delicious biscuit to take back to your lair, to be enjoyed later by your Queen as she lays eggs and reads Ant Weekly. I awaited in the shadows – bug spray in one hand and a bottle of the flea spray in the other (I know you’re not fleas, but it was all I had) – as your little antennae could not believe their luck of finding a chocolate biscuit, ripe for the crumb picking, I suddenly leaped out and waged a ninja style attack on you, spraying you with copious amounts of bug spray and toxic flea spray (again, not calling you fleas… not that there is anything wrong with fleas). I then followed you back to your lair, watching you run screaming, “Save the queen! She thinks we’re fleas!” while twitching from the toxic spray lingering in the air. You were probably thinking, “Dude, my entire body is burning, BURNING! AHH!” as I poured death into your lair, and as a final retaliation you sent a few of your guard ants to attack me, whom were met with my fluffy Elmo slippers swiftly smooshing them into the ground.
Don’t mess with me again, ants. Next time I shall bring out the kettle, and I will cook you little buggers alive, then you will know what it feels like to be a crab in a seafood restaurant.