My Ants in Town::



Killing one or two is easy. Stomp, swap, smash, crush. That's all there is to it. One motion, no remorse, easy. But it doesn't matter. Ants. Fucking annoying.

Killing ants isn't like killing a bear. Its not like ripping off a bandaid. Ants are like your sleeping grandmother on the couch at Christmas. Sure, she's not bothering you now, but it's only a matter of time before she wakes up, and insists on watching Lawrence Welk or some other horseshit on your tv. Invading. Stealing. Those little fuckers.

So yeah, I have ants. Now I know what you're thinking....what a wretched repugnant slob you must be, wallowing in a tepid pool of your own festering stank, attracting insects and small woodland animals to the scene in search of something dead or dying on which to scavenge. But you would be sorely mistaken friends, for I wallow not, and my pool of festering stank is in fact not tepid at all. Admittedly I'm not the cleanest guy on the planet. Sure I leave some dirty dishes around, but does that make me a pig? Sometimes I drop clothes on the floor...qualifying me as some vile troll? I think not.

Look, I'm not that dirty. I eat in my bedroom sometimes, that's all. I should be able to eat in my bedroom if I want to. I should be able to crust my genitals in tostidos and dip them in hot gooey salsa con queso if I want to, and do you know why? Because I'm a grown man, and I live alone, so who gives a fuck what I do? However, there are, as you might have guessed, some very unpleasant ramifications that accompany the dipping of genitals in salsa con queso, namely, you attract some unwelcome six legged friends. And they never go away. But see the whole salsa/testicles thing is not to blame here. Before ants can feast on the leftovers from your deviant lifestyle, they have to have a way of getting into your apartment. So somewhere in the infinite well of problems in my building there's some little crack in the foundation where some completely inconsiderate ants are crawling in and setting up shop. And for that, friends, they must die.

But ants are tough as hell to kill. You can't just step on them, squash them, burn them, shoot them and stab them. Well you could, but more will inevitably come back. The key is to kill the queen. That bitch. Without her they all die. So you buy some weak poison, so that the stupid unsuspecting little ants will eat some, and bring some back to the nest and feed it to their stupid unsuspecting ant friends, and they bring two friends, and they bring two friends, and so on, and so on, until everyone is dead. Pretty sweet. Except that the Goddamn ants won't eat the very weak poison because you bought it off some half cocked website where they advertise real customer reviews, and everybody can't believe how fast and easy it was, and how effective it was at killing ants, and it cost 20 friggin dollars, and it comes from some tiny little middle eastern nation on the northern tip of my ass and probably tastes like carpet cleaner to some particularly persnickety pests.

So now what? I still have ants, I guess, because every once in a while I'm sitting at my computer, innocently ranting about my life, and I'll see one walking by. Just mosying on down the desk, passing by a big honking load of weak ant poison, off to some ant utopia that's undoubtedly flourishing in one of my lesser frequented left shoes. I suppose what I'll do is clean up the notably unsightly pile of ant poison, wipe everything down with some sort of clearner that advertises kililng 99.9% of germs and , with any luck, everything else, and hope that I don't wake up one morning, put on my shoes and immediately have my foot gnawed off by 6 million stupid, unsuspecting, pissed off ants.