Last week I discovered that a colony of ants had decided to squat in my bedroom window. These ants are not the cute l’il teeny ones that are guilty of not much more than ruining your picnic either; these are giant motherfucking evil looking creatures that freak me the fuck out. Seriously. I am not a squeamish person but there is just something about these ants that send me into berzerker frenzy.
The last time that these fuckers had ventured into my room was in May and I thought that I had killed the colony since I had sprayed so much ant spray into the woodwork around the window that I nearly killed myself but then as I was working in my room last week I started to hear some sort of odd crackling near my window.
(Actually I think one of the things that sets me stupid about these ants is that I can hear them under the wood.)
I looked over in dread and sure enough there was an ant shaking his ass at me–who was soon joined by more ants who grabbed their crotches and flipped me the bird. I freaked out again and went on a spray frenzy but I had unfortunately used the majority of the spray in my last rage, and while I killed the ants that were doing the Harlem Shake on my sill, I didn’t feel safe from seeing an encore performance later.
I originally wanted to burn the house down but my mother convinced that an exterminator would work just as well. Since I have deadlines and am still covering at my “part time” job she took over finding an exterminator and setting up an appointment.
I came home on Saturday and was told that the exterminator had come and sprayed while I was at my other job.
“They’re Carpenter Ants,” my mother told me.
I nodded. “I could tell by the way they were singing Superstar at all hours.”**
“And it was a pain in the ass to find an exterminator. You would think that they would be under ‘E’ for ‘exterminator’ but they’re not.” (My mother still uses a phone book.)
“They’re under ‘P’ for ‘pest control’,” she clarified.
“I see. And what was the name of the company?”
“Able Pest Control.”
“Oh. I was hoping that they were named Lannister,” I replied.
“What? Why?” my mother asked.
“Because a Lannister always sprays for pests!” I howled with laughter at my own wittiness.
My brother happened to overhear this conversation and told me that I should beat myself for such a terrible pun.
And that was the highlight of my weekend.
(I’m not even being facetious, that amused me for several hours.)