GROUCH CHRONICLES

Califormication

The Grumpy Old Guy has an ant problem

I hate ants in the house.

The woman to whom I am related by marriage is a Southern California native, and we lived there for a while before decamping to the Pacific Northwest. Every return visit reminds me how much I hate those six-legged assholes.

To experience a real-world bug’s life, place something edible on the kitchen floor and leave for a while. You’ll return to a miniature L.A. freeway of insects, feelers a-waving and limbs resolutely churning, gleefully parting out the food item and trucking the bits back to whatever outpost of hell from whence they came.

Our home in the Seattle area is blessedly free of the things. If you drop a crumb, you don’t have to pick it up immediately. And that’s important, because I am a slob.

Oh yeah? Screw you.

I’m not proud of it, but I’m effing done with embarrassment. Every human brain has some loose wires and worn insulation. This one’s not so bad. Parents, don’t worry if your kid won’t clean their room. Be on the lookout for actually dangerous shit, like neatfreakery, religion, and libertarianism.

So yes, having me around means a certain amount of debris in your life. If that’s a problem, you are cordially invited to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut. There are plenty of other people you can be around. Go judge one of them.

But heaven help my slovenly brethren and sistren in SoCal.

You can try to stop ants, of course. Start by scouring the Internets for non-toxic solutions. It’s entertaining and enlightening. Be prepared for evangelical-level exhortations about an all-natural lifestyle.

Just don’t kid yourself that any of them work.

I know, I know. You aren’t the only one with a Facebook account infested by friends waxing rhapsodic about their sure-fire techniques. Try them. As my father used to say, each is Another Fucking Growth Experience. In this case, lessons in the meaninglessness of life.

Once you’ve finished yelling at the cloud, get serious and buy something from the deadly poison aisle. Spray it around. Breathe in the scent, scientifically formulated to reassure you the fumes aren’t shortening your life. Ignore how badly that’s failing.

It deals with the ants, so insect neurotoxin smells like victory.

Does enjoying this mass slaughter make me a bad person? Probably. Still, the worldwide ant population is estimated to exceed 20 quadrillion. That’s 20,000,000,000,000,000. With a total biomass of approximately 12 megatons.

Go ahead, kill a few. They’ll make more.

It’s pretty satisfying. Not “better than sex” good, though better than anything else involving a dirty floor, life-shortening toxins, and alarming numbers of vermin. Unless that’s your kink. You be you, I’ll be over there. Waaay over there.

The best comparison to ants is flooding. If the tide is rising outside your home, it will find a way past your defenses. All the sandbags and sealant in the world won’t stop it for long.

The same is true for water.

Go ahead, caulk every crevice. Fill every gap. Sprinkle your alternative repellants in the shape of a pentagram and offer your soul to Satan IF HE’LL KEEP THE LITTLE FUCKERS AT BAY!

Don’t worry, you’ll never have to pay up. The Dark Lord himself couldn’t stop them for long.

Then someday, you’ll reach peak bug-ass nightmare.

Ants are constantly scouting every inch of your house, whether you see them or not. Imagine you’ve zealously kept the kitchen spotless. You decide to make cookies, only to discover you didn’t seal the sugar tightly enough and your pantry is overrun with tiny, six-limbed snowmen. With a sinking heart, you realize they’ve gotten into every compromised container. Which is a lot of them.

Then come the decisions. Pasta is easy, just rinse off the invaders. Oh, grow a pair. After ten minutes of boiling, it’ll be the cleanest and most sanitary thing in your house. Suck it up.

But what about the sugar? All you have to do is scrape off the top layer — probably — and those cookies would be delicious. Or do you throw everything out and vow to do better next time?

One advantage of accepting slobbism is removing “vow to do better” from the list of options. What’s the point?

In any event, now you have to spray the pantry. Except virulent poison on the counters and floors is one thing, on food is another.

So it all comes out. Every bag, box, jar, and can is lined — OK, piled — up on the counter. Everyone says Raid isn’t harmful unless you deliberately shoot it into your mouth, but “everyone” says a ton of stupid shit. I don’t know jack about cypermethrin and pyrethroids, only that I don’t want a soupçon of them spicing up tonight’s dinner.

Then with flashlight in hand, locate and seal every entry point for the tiny fuckers. Unleash the death spray, then make yourself scarce until the fumes dissipate.

When you return, the ants will have discovered a hole in one of the packages waiting to go back into the pantry. They’re all over the counter again.

God damn you and your feelers and mandibles and excessive number of legs! God damn you all to hell!

Pack up everything, we are outta here.

You can read more of the Grumpy Old Guy's "Grouch Chronicles," where he shits on your dreams, explains all of American politics in 24 words, snipes at the young, shames slut shaming, comments on “Don’t Say Gay”, contemplates Pride Month, and is confused about heavenly forgiveness.

John Werth is a Medium Top Writer in Humor and Satire, resident OG GOG at MuddyUm, and member of the Frat House Saturday Morning school of domestic maintenance. He’s a pacifist who endeavors at all times not to harm any living creature — except ants, mosquitoes, and the many things he plans to eat.

If by some miracle you have room in your inbox, consider filling it with a subscription to get my stories. Even better, if you use this link to sign up for Medium yourself I’ll get a commission. Thanks!