against rainy-day refugees

I love rain as much as any moody Irishwoman worth her stout. But with the rain come the ants. I'm sure some among you (bless the vegans and Buddhists, every one) might argue pity for the bugs, what with their homes being flooded out and their anty up-from-microbootstraps ability to (as it were) rise to the occasion. It's some athletic ambition, after all, to find higher ground in a second-floor place when you're a mite bigger than a dust particle. But to be real, I never once indicated I would foster any such rubber tree aspirations.

These monsoon ants, in my opinion, made two mistakes. One is they tried to eat my KitKat. But no big whatever. I can always go get another KitKat and just eat the whole thing without ever once putting it down before their god-blasted feelers. No, that was not really the problem.

The real offense was their orderly proletarian efforts to settle all their gross little displaced antennae, heads, torsos, and abdomens into my orchids. No! Out, out damn infiltrators! My orchids need their space and are not the kind of flora to brook colonists. So, dear vegans, cover your eyes. They're all gone. The ants are dead. But they really should have stayed out of the orchids. And well, if they wanted a piece of my KitKat, the least they could have done was ask.