The internet is slow here in our little black hole.
But my Sweet Sven and I don't have time for the internet.
We spend our short season of warm and sunny days stepping on ants.
"This year we got the big ones, Edna."
I try to be patient with mother nature and all her bugs and critters that slither.
You have to when you live in the country.
But, if they are born with antennas or more than four legs or no legs at all I prefer they live outside.
Our three four legged pets walk a fine line as it is.
The other evening I was on the couch watching a rerun of a rerun when a crew of big black ants walked past me carrying a hotdog.
I got nothing against big or black, unless we are talking ants.
"What the hell!" I yelled.
They didn't even blink.
I am a pacifist.
It is not like me to be a mass murderer.
Or even a simple minded serial killer.
Okay, maybe I killed that one UPS guy, but he had it coming.
I mean he showed up when I had the hair color in and the mustache remover on.
So.
It was inevitable.
Okay.
Maybe I used to be a serial killer.
http://millienoe1.wpengine.com/2012/12/a-thing-of-beauty/
But that was a long time ago.
I was much younger and had a quick temper back then.
With age comes patience and wisdom and super powers.
Remember how the incredible hulk would change from a mild mannered guy into a green monster and smash everything in sight when he got upset about an injustice?
That is how I am.
Only my super power shows up when I am feeling disrespected.
And ten million ants carrying a hot dog right past me in my own living room and another ten million holding up the rear with the bun, is disrespectful.
It was clearly time for I, me, Millie Noe to take drastic measures.
Stomping on them individually was not cutting it.
Even with Sven and I both on task.
All it took was a little dab of poison under my kitchen sink.
Those disrespectful partying fools took to that stuff the way bears take to honey, flies take to shit and I take to Jagermeister.
And ain't nobody worried about the consequences.
Because that is what happens when you are all buzzed up.
You aren't thinking clearly.
And neither are they.
It appears as though they have a complete disregard for their dire situation.
Because while I am sitting here singing, "the ants go marching two by two, hoorah, hoorah," they are drinking the Kool-Aid I set out and taking it home to their family and friends.
And killing them.
I suppose that makes me some kind of a sociopath.
Whatever.
