Dear Fire Ants,
I'm from a place called Canada, I'm sure you've heard of it, since you have cousins there. Your Canadian cousins, are who I grew up with. They're much bigger than you, and fatter and they know that real beer does not have the word "Budweiser" on the bottle. They're also friendly, and having encountered hundreds, if not thousands of these cousins of yours over the years, I can assure you that each enounter was a friendly one, where said cousin crawled on me, tickling me slightly, and then was placed back down to me as I marveled at the amazingness that is nature.
You, however, might be the bitchiest bastards I've ever met. Now, I do realize that you might have taken my plopping myself down in the grass yesterday to possibly be a terrorist air attack. My boobs do look like missiles in my fantastic Victoria's Secret boulder holders. And sure, I did rest my right wrist right on top your nest, but let's be honest, your signage? Not exactly obvious. Nowhere did it say "DANGER! Approaching fire ant nest, approach at your own risk" or "Welcome to our nest!" or "You bitches going to die if you get any closer to our nest."
I can understand that you thought my intent was to destroy your nest, after all, my five-foot three height would probably make me appear to be as large as Godzilla to you.
But seriously? Did it ever occur to you to ask before maliciously throwing your army on me and biting me so much, that my wrist ballooned up to the size of my calf? I mean, most people would say 'hey, dude, this is my home over here, you mind moving before you crush my new plasma tv? Much obliged!' I guess your Queen never taught you manners, did she?
And I guess you and your friends aren't most people, are you? Most people wouldn't make my wrist look like I have leprocy or am going through puberty, because my wrist has close to 30 pustules today that look like giant white heads. And this? Is not the professional image I'm going for, especially when my underwear was sticking way out of my jeans on Wednesday, and I'd managed to tuck my shirt in said underwear at the last trip to the bathroom. At least everyone was aware that all of my good underwear was in the wash that day. The point is that you suck.
You're mean, you're vicious, and I'm pretty sure that out of all the ants, you have the worst BO.
What's made you so angry anyway? Project Runway's back on, there are many more days of summer left and the world has found out what a creep Jon Gosselin is.
At least I should thank you for staying away from my baby and taking all of your anger out on me. But seriously? Next time I see any of you little bastards, I'm setting your f'ing nest on fire, I'm not even kidding you. You want war, you little six-legged punks? I'll give you war. I spit on you and your stupid little venom. Trust me, you don't want to mess with me. I'm French, we eat snails and cow tongues. Don't make me name you the next thing on the national French menu.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Dear Fire Ants,