7/8/02: I've been pretty sporadic with the updates recently,
I know. I have lots of wacky zany new tales about my new life
as a Cantabrigian and all that comes with the wonderful city
of Cambridge, and all the new and exciting things Abbie has
thrown up recently, but for some reason every time I get home
from work and sit down at the computer, huzzah! Neverwinter
Nights or Morrowind suddenly starts up and there's NO WAY I
CAN STOP IT until I, like, get to Level 600 or save the city
of Townsville from the undead goblins or something. I've tried,
honestly I have.
So now I present a little bit of fun I wrote in January and
posted to the ol' Brunching Shuttlecocks web board. I don't
post there no more, but that's a different story altogether.
But I figured a little recycling wouldn't hurt, and most of
you probably haven't seen this little gem, so here goes. It's
a tale we all can relate to, whether we have children or dogs
or neither.
Do keep in mind that this was written while I was still
in Marlborough, and subsequently have moved to a much nicer
place in Cambridge. One that's blissfully ant-free. As far as
we know.
Also keep in mind there's a whole lotta cussing going
on in this piece, which is more or less understandable
when one realizes exactly the sheer scope of opposition
before me. But if you're a relative or someone who
still would like to believe I don't have a pottymouth
in certain times of trial, you might want to read
something else. I still love you, though.
1/13/02
This week I noticed ants in my apartment. This, naturally, pissed
me off as I don't run a boarding house for ants. I have two natural
parasites as it is, and they're called cats, and there's no room
in this place for cats and ants. I like to have food of my own
sometimes, you know. I also endeavor to keep my kitchen area as
clean and tidy as I can, because nobody likes dishes in the sink
or food left out on the counter, so seeing ants around is like
God's way of telling me "Ha! You thought you were being clean?
Brother, you AIN'T CLEAN ENOUGH!" I've tried to tell God
on several occasions how unimpressed I am some times with the
system for the delivery of clues, but you know how omnipresent
deities are. Working in mysterious ways and all that. So clearly,
it's a sign I must take and heed. These ants have to go.
All this week I've been making plans to go shopping. I've been
drafting up my list of cheap items to buy, and among the list
was "ant traps." I have some super heavy-duty ANTKILLA
spray in the undersink cupboard, but I didn't want to use it on
only a few ants I saw out in public, and the other furry parasites
probably would not cotton to it either. I can't exactly shut them
out of the kitchen, either, unless I wanted to deal with angry
cats scratching hell out of the bedroom or the bathroom.
Hmm -- maybe the utility closet. I could put 'em there, the bastards.
So ant traps was on the list, and this morning I decided I was
going to trudge on out to the supermarket before the snow really
started to fall. It's not exactly snowing out here yet, it's slushing.
The entire city of Marlborough had turned into one giant unflavored
Slurpee by 7 AM and I was raring to go before it got any worse
-- but first I wanted to eat breakfast. Grocery shopping on an
empty stomach is just about as bad as going grocery shopping stoned.
Hunger causes the same kind of short-term memory problems as the
evil weed does, so you end up dancing a spirited cakewalk through
the grocery store, toting home a bunch of bags, opening them up,
and realizing you have no idea why the bags are full of jalapeno-cheddar
flavored rice cake snacks and microwavable chicken stew -- "well,
it seemed like a good idea at the time, I guess."
It is a sin for which the only penance is to eat that which you
bought, and some times that is the cruelest punishment of all.
I grab my box of Frosted Flakes (specially formulated in the
Kellogg's laboratories to bring out the tiger in me) and my milk
and begin to merrily pour the cereal into the bowl. "Hallo
Frosted Flakes, " I said, as I'm sure you all do when you
pour your cereal in the morning. "I know you are looking
forward to being a part of this nutritious breakfast as much as
I am!" The box was nearing emptiness, which meant I got the
added joy of shaking out all the sugary dust in the box onto my
bowl of cereal for extra zest. Unfortunately, this morning I also
got the extra joy of shaking out several ants into my bowl of
cereal, too, for extra jesushchristshitdamnfuckNOTMYFROSTEDFLAKESYOUBASTARDSAAAARGH.
Breakfast ruined by the ants! Hooray! I didn't want to eat them
myself, though I could probably use the protein. Ants have protein,
right? And I didn't want to sit around picking the ants out, cause
who knows how many other ants were lurking behind flakes? Nothing's
sadder than an individual going over every single flake in a cereal
bowl. Except for an individual who has ants in his cereal bowl,
I guess.
I dump the cereal in the trash, really grumbling now. I grab
the cup of coffee from the coffeemaker and there's an ant swimming
around in it. I fish the ant out and make bit of a mess on the
counter so I grab a paper towel. There are ants in the roll of
paper towels.
:(
This is the part of the story where I make a lot of frowny faces.
:( :( :( :( :( :( :( :(
This is not the part of the story where you hug me because either
I'll have ants on me or you will.
:( :( :( :( :( :( :( :(
The paper towels being the last straw, I storm out of the apartment
in a big ol' huff. Yes, I am off to the grocery store without
eating first, but frankly, I'm pretty much put off my feed right
then, so shopping hungry isn't all that bad a threat. The supermarket
trip is uneventful, though there are a heck of a lot more folks
shopping at 7:30 in the morning that I'd have thought, and I hear
an instrumental Muzak version of the Foo Fighters' "Big Me"
that's eerily ironic, and I notice with chagrin that they've changed
the Crunchberries' colors to red, green, and (IIRC) orange --
"Just like Crayola™ Colors!" Yay, kids! Let's eat
crayons! They make your poop turn funny Crayola™ colors!
(I know that last bit from second-hand experience. My littlest
brother ate crayons once when he was young, with the aforementioned
hysterical results. Mom was chagrined. My other little brother
and I laughed ourselves sick.)
Included in this shopping spree is a package of ant bait traps.
They don't seem to carry the kind I remember as a kid anymore,
those round metal puck-shaped jobbies with holes in the side.
The ones I get are plastic and shaped stylistically like some
kinda swirly flower thing. Yay! Now I can trap ants at home with
my plastic flowers of certain death. I pick the cheapest traps
from the bunch, foregoing the super "Double Trap" with,
as the package says, "Two kinds of food ants like to eat!"
I look at that and mutter "Hells no!" I want to kill
these ants, not give 'em a goddamn buffet.
The slush is really coming down as I leave the supermarket. My
car's already covered again in Unflavored Slurpee, and more folks
are beginning to pile in and buy their Necessary Goods in case
this slush storm lasts three weeks or something. It is a short
slip over the road and back to the apartment, where I start to
put away the groceries and prepare to set the plastic flowers
of certain ant death.
The packaging says to place them "in corners of cupboards,
in the usual path of ants." Well, if I knew where they were
coming from, I'd have a better idea of gauging their actual paths.
So I put one under the sink and one in the cupboard next to the
under-sink one. I put one in the far corner of the counter behind
the toaster oven, flirting with death in my own inimitable way.
That leaves me with one ant trap left. Hmm, I say. The above-stove
cupboard looks good enough. There's a double-door cupboard there.
I only use the right-hand side to store the cat treats and bubble
stuff (bubble stuff + balcony = fun fun summertime hoohah, you
see.) I guess I can put one in on the left side and it won't contaminate
the kitty treats. I haven't used that cupboard yet, anyway.
Or so I thought.
(You know what's coming, don't you? You who've had it happen
before, you know what's coming. Someday I may sit alongside you
and chuckle with you at the misfortune of some other schmoe who
makes this Terrifying Discovery, but today is not that day. Today
it's my day to be Schmoe.)
I open the unused cupboard to find a package of rye rolls. Rolls?!
I haven't had rolls in ages. And I don't really like rye.
I look closer and I realize, oh no, it's not rye. IT AIN'T RYE
BY A LONG SHOT. The entire package is festering, seething, writhing
with little black ants. The same ants who apparently like Frosted
Flakes, coffee, and paper towels. The same ants I have sworn to
devote my life to eradicating. In a goddamn bag of rolls. These
must've been hamburger rolls or something. I don't know. All I
know is that this innocuous package of bread products is now home
to Marlborough Ant Colony Super #1 and is the source for
the ant infestation in my kitchen. They weren't in the walls,
no, nor were they refugees from some other poorly-cleaning schmuck's
apartment. They're my ants with my name written
all over their home. Well, my name and Nissen, but I digress.
Pulling the package out of the counter reveals a whole mass of
ants underneath, pissed now that I uncovered them. In one fell,
furious swoop, I throw the roll package into the trash, tightly
knot the bag up, give my attention back to the open cupboard and
proceed to use the ant trap in a manner which it probably was
not designed for. I start to smash the ants with the damn plastic
flower.
Smash! Smush! Crush!
I utter heathen cries of obscenity and torment, urging them to
die as quickly as possible. I exhort their comrades to fall in
the same, horrible manner. I invite them to go fuck themselves,
I advise them to rot in hell and I make it perfectly clear I do
not expect their bastard offspring, however potentially extinct,
to ever come back to my gentle place of abode. When I'm not using
the broad, flat side of the ant trap to crush as many as I can
at once, I'm using the sharp-like plastic edges to pin down and
crunch an individual offender. They scurry hither and yon, to
and fro, and when I get tired of the bloodlust I toss the trap
into the cupboard, anxiously awaiting the survivors, and slam
the door. I grab the ANTKILLA spray out of its hiding spot, re-open
the trash bag, and spray a generous helping over the bag of rolls.
"IT IS TIME FOR YOU TO DIE!" I gleefully cheer, re-tying
the bag and heading outdoors to toss it in the ol' dumpster. It
is here I make a mistake, and instead of putting on boots, I slip
on my regular walking shoes which don't like the elements too
much. The slush is thick on the road as I run to the dumpster
and back, and I'm soaked.
So now. I have ant traps. A Cupboard of Death is sitting over
there, waiting to be cleaned out. The cats are in the bedroom
and they're Not Happy. My apartment smells of ant spray and wet
socks. And I'm not even hungry anymore. The ground is rapidly
filling up outside with snow so I'm stuck here for a while. Good
morning.
So let this be a lesson to all ye with more cupboard space than
you know what to do with! Don't be like me -- check them regularly.
I can't even remember the last time I had hamburger rolls, and
I can't even understand why I bothered to chuck them in that stupid
cupboard since I never check there anyway. Now I have to deal
with horrendous ant carnage, the likes of which I've never seen
before and hopefully will never see again.
Or maybe, better yet, the moral of this story is don't buy hamburger
rolls. I don't know. All I know is I'm going out to eat the first
chance I get.
Take care, and don't eat anything you shouldn't.
R. Noyes
Cambridge, Massachusetts
02140
