1994. Had a scrape with an overconfident colony of imperialist fire ants, whose swarming army of segmented maneaters—abdominal sacs flush with alkaloid venom—I managed to thwart with a can of non-stick cooking spray and the brass Zippo my buddy Dave gave me as a going away present in advance of my moving out west.
Ordinarily, of course, I would have dusted my arms and calves with crumbled kieselgur and confronted the colony of Solenopsis invicta head on using a bit of lye soap melted into several gallons of water—the preferred tactical maneuver against such an aggressive open-field attack.
But to be honest, my meatball sandwich was threatening to go cold—and anyway, why in Christ’s name would I be packing Diatomaceous earth on a picnic lunch I was hoping would end with that funny feel, followed by me and my lady friend slowly savoring a pair of Winston Ultralights while I fumbled around for some Kleenex or a blotting towel…?
This doesn’t make any sense. If your preferred approach is lye soap, why the sudden longing for diatomaceous earth?
And it leaves the reader in doubt: did you score, or not?
Well, you dust yourself with the chalk so that you can wander into the colony’s epicenter unharrassed, then dump the lye liquid over the entire swarm.
And of course I scored. I’m a freakin’ stud, remember?
A picnic? Huh. You must be a stud. I find picnics lots more romantic in theory than in practice, when either my foot goes to sleep, or the food falls apart and we have inadequate utensilage, or mosquitoes attack, or my husband says, “Did I tell you I have to go to Santa Barbara next week? Oh, and could you get my grey pants cleaned?”
Like beaches. That whole sand-in-the-suit thing.
TW: Zipper. Seriously.
Fire ants? I always used a couple of gallons of gasoline. Pour it on the mound, wait a few minutes to let it soak down and set it alight. It’s fun to watch and you can toast marshmallows on it.
Harrison, that’s not why they call ‘em fire ants.
Should be, but it ain’t.
Isn’t love grand?
Next time, Jeff, slather your bods in some Tea Tree Oil-scented KY, and the rampaging Solonopsis i. will steer clear of your love-nest.
GOLDSTEIN LIED!
SOLENOPSIDS DIED!
Why didn’t you just blow the dam and flood the field like Charlton Heston woulda done?
Uh, I had my finger in the dyke. So to speak?
Oh, god, another Buffy fan…
I understand the surviving fire ants have issued a tiny, very high-pitched fatwa on your infidel ass…
My husband and I have become almost quasi-Buddhist: we take most bugs/spiders out of the house and set them free.
But we are still ruthless exterminators of 1) the rats that wander into the basement, and 2) ants in the house. Those we kill with ruthless abandon.