Normally, I kind of like bugs. Spiders do us a real service. Ladybugs are marvelously cute. Bees are necessary to life on this planet. But wasps? Wasps are assholes. I hate wasps.
Yesterday afternoon I had nothing to write about. I’d had a manicure and ruined it within an hour, so I bought some polish remover and applied a clear polish. Even I can’t mess that up. It was taking forever to dry, so I thought I’d walk out on the front porch while dinner was cooking.
No sooner had I closed the door behind me than a swarm of angry wasps swooped down on my head. At first, I didn’t know what was attacking me, and I swatted at the little bastards, earning me a sting on my left forearm. I made it back inside the house with just the one sting, but I was mad.
Studly Doright was sitting in his chair in the den, and I went crying to him that the insects had to die. I wanted them executed with extreme prejudice.
“Assassinate the little f*ckers!” I demanded, directing him to the light fixture on the front porch.
With a few well aimed sprays of a deadly insecticide, Studly destroyed the nest. My hero!
See the little fuzzy bunch of wasps on the light fixture? It’s gone now, and all of its nasty little denizens are sleeping with the fishes, figuratively speaking. In actuality they’re in the trash bin. I’ll take that.
Peace, people. Except for wasps. Although, they did give me something to write about.