So the ants now have control of my kitchen cupboard. My food sits in a box on the dining room table like I’m a transient waiting out another day of ennui at the bus station while holding pathological conversations with invisible rabbits. The cat is back. And holding a grudge. We’ve developed a tense relationship where I feed him and he spits invective back to me as payment rendered. I’ve also seen a few ants in the kitchen sink. Those I took care of with my secret weapon they call “The Hammer of God”. I refer to it as my index finger.
Friday night when I got home from work I dug the potato chips out of my hobo box-o-vittles and walked to my desk in the living room. As I sat down to turn on my laptop I saw an ant on the desk. Dispatching him I swore aloud and wondered where he had come from. Then I see one in the carpet. Grabbing a flashlight and ignoring the cat’s guffaws I traced their main grouping to a small garbage can a few feet away from the desk.
When I shone the flashlight for a closer look I saw that the ants had converted the base of the wooden trash bucket into a night club, “Chez Tissue Paper with Glaze from a Donut Still on It”. For a nominal cover charge the ants were allowed in to crawl over the old donut paper I had stupidly thrown in the trash. After gorging themselves they stayed for $1 jello shooters and the dance stylings of Trixie, known to have the biggest thorax in the tri-state area.
I tried talking to the door-ant but he got belligerent with me: Something about my name not being on the list and “please move behind the velvet rope before I call security”. He wasn’t so tough after I brought out The Hammer, quickly calling for the club manager. Soon I was introduced to Rick. “Great,” I thought, “an ant that’s seen Casablanca.” Rick informed me that he was the owner and proprietor of dozens of after-hours clubs throughout my neighborhood. I told him I didn’t care about the others, but this one had to shut down.
The bribes began with some miniscule morsels of cookie. After I pointed out that I had an entire bag of cookies Rick attempted to subtly get the location from me by saying, “Soooo, where do you keep this bag of cookies?” He tried to cover up his clumsiness with a quick offer of a night out with Trixie and her double jointed friend Honey Larue. For the next hour or so I had to explain to Rick the impossibilities of inter-species mating with charts, graphs and a quickly thrown together power point presentation.
Given no other choice I brought out the Hammer of God, however, Rick rallied his troops and began an attack whose main tactic was for the ants to run in all directions screaming hysterically, “Save the glaze! Save the glaze!” My index finger wasn’t doing enough damage so I had to deploy the Ducha del Muerte, the Shower of Death, otherwise known as my can of Raid spray.
My living room is now ant free. This was the costliest battle yet as far as ant casualties but I know they’ll be back. They are an enemy that doesn’t give up easily. The cat and I gave the honored dead a proper burial. They are at rest in my vacuum cleaner bag.
I will now hum taps . . .