It’s the time of year in Michigan when red ants think they have earned the right to march under my front door and take up residence in my coat closet. I am not entirely sure why their preferred habitat is under my hiking boots, but we go through this every year.
This year I found a new and entertaining way of dispatching my little home invaders. It’s a spray bottle filled with Borax and water. (Not to be confused with Borat and water. Though, I am sure he would be just as effective at chasing away pests.) Spray that death-concoction on those 6-legged hellspawns and they run for their lives/curl up and die. Top it off with a few squirts of peppermint oil and those ants will start leaving memorials at the doorstep to remind future generations of the atrocities that occurred inside. It’s fun for me because I sat in an ant patch as a little kid and I hold grudges for a very long time.
So, I am gleefully squirting a little marching line of ants, sending those insect a-holes to hell and giggling maniacally. And yes, I was misquoting classic movies left and right. “Say hello to my little friend!” *squirt squirt* “Where’s your ant-god now?” *squirt* “Who do we call when we don’t know which way to go? NO ONE BECAUSE I JUST SQUIRTED YOU WITH BORAX, YOU MOTHERFLUFFER!”
I am having a whale of a time when I notice the kids staring at me with horrified looks on their faces.
It was then I realized that to them it totally looked like I was going all insect holocaust on the cast of A Bug’s Life. My bad. Sorry about that loss of an innocent childhood, guys.