Sunday, September 12, 2010

I could probably fight a rabid kangaroo at this point. And win.

NOTE: Yeah, I know I should've posted this 2 months ago, when everyone actually read this disaster of a web page embarrassment to society loverly blog of mine. So... just pretend it's July again, and you're sweating like a horse and trying not to move because Global Warming is slapping everyone across the face in the worst possible way. Seriously, it's September in Colofreakingrado and it's still eighty on some days. I swear, I don't get paid enough to do this crap. BECAUSE I DON'T GET PAID AT ALL. Whatever. Read the words I spew out of my fingertips because I think I'm funny. Oh, and when I'm an adult and really well-known, my friend and I are going to live in a loft with vaulted ceilings and a wall that's a water feature. WHOA, DREAM BIG! I'll let you know how that turns out.

Captain's Log... (I'm going to go back this time. Like, from newest to oldest. Try not to be confused. If it helps, scroll down to the end of this post, then read to the top. Actually, you should probably do that.)

Later in July...: OH. MY. GOD. We got them. We got them good. We punched them in their little ant jewels and kicked them in the mouth and went all Chuck Norris on them and removed the eff out of them. It had gone past personal to this-is-just-some-sort-of-horrible-punishment-but-we-have-atoned-for-our-sins-so-it's-all-good-now-right? and we got the bug spray. And man, do they hate it. Never have I felt such gratification and safety in contrast to such anger and terror. I own them. We own them. They are our hoes and if I ever see one of them again I will act without even having to think and smoosh that horrible little thing like it's nobody's business. I imagine the ant queen and all her gluttonous baby-farting grossness getting carried to some far-off distant land and peeing her pants in fear. It's a beautiful thing, really. 

July 11, Day 34: Today, like days before, I battled with a fury that is most likely unprecedented. If you woke up one morning and found out that rabid raccoons had infiltrated your prized collection of potato chips and then they peed in your hair while you were sleeping and then gone to work, only to find that your chair had been crapped on by Mel Gibson AND Lindsay Lohan, AND THEN after that, you walked out to your car and some crazy homeless person punched you in the face, that still wouldn't match my anger and passion. I defeated them, if not for a while, with foaming carpet cleaner and a vacuum. I found solace by nightfall.

July 7, Day 29: Today, I believe that little part of my heart that had not been taken over by my hatred for ants was gone. Frozen, destroyed, and never coming back. Before, I'd been annoyed, frustrated, and maybe even a little scared. And rightfully so! I hate the thought of creepy crawly little bastards crawling all over me and every time I kill a bug, I get all twitchy and shuddery for a good long while. But I swear to... OPRAH WINFREY, if you try to doubt my bug-killing skills, I'll stab you in the arm. I work hard and methodically when I defeat a smaller species than myself because I don't know what they're capable of and I don't know if they're going to be able to jump and fly back at me (when my attack fails) and lunge for my neck. Anyways, the ants were just EVERYWHERE, from behind the couch to the sliding glass door to the kitchen and entryway to the hallway to the landing and I HAD ENOUGH. So I poured Hydrogen Peroxide down the ant holes. And hair spray and pet cleaner. I was livid and fearless, so much so that I leaped into the attack without much prior planning. I had my brow furrowed and my mouth firmly pursed in anger and concentration. Sweat was gathering on my back and my imaginary beard was flowing wildly about like Gandelf the Gray. Or Dumbledore. I poured the bubbly chemical down the hole they made near the jacket closet, into the hole they made near the hearth, and flung it wildly at their nest behind the wicker stool near our couch. It was epic, to say the least.

Days before...: It has been a month at least by now and I am growing more weary by the day. The fight has not left me, but the cold sweats, shivers and shudders, stifling Denver heat, and crabby Comrade and children are getting to me. There are tears of frustration and loud battle cries erupting now and then, but it's mostly me getting as much as I possibly done with my shoes on in the kitchen and living room before I realize what's really happening and no, it's not some horrible nightmare, and go hide in the bathroom. Or tuck my knees close to me and hug them while wearing my pajamas at 3 in the afternoon and feeling more like a drowsy moose than a teenaged human. I regularly text the Lieutenant (aka Parental) to find what to do because God help us if she doesn't know what to do. I often suggest simply avoiding the whole exterminator debacle and replacing our carpet with hardwood floors. Because everyone knows an ant can't escape the clutches of my shoe when both surfaces are flat and prepared to, quite literally, squeeze the life out of it in something reminiscent of Indiana Jones. (High five for two IJ references in a post in a row) Comrade isn't doing much better, though I admire her courage for staying on the couch even when she's found 2 ants crawling on it. Near her head. *Shudder, gag* I find myself worrying with her about the devils escaping into her cast like moths to the back of my posters when I scream and flail and try to crawl under my floor enough to scare them there. Or they're just awaiting the next night to fly out and make me crap out my stomach in fear. Joke's on them though becase they die really quickly and- OH JESUS. When I move I'm gonna have to deal with ninety billion moth carcasses. You know what? Fire. That's the solution. If Fahrenheit 451 taught me anything, it's that fire really does work when getting rid of scary things like moths and slithery effers like silverfish. And God must think this is hilarious because when the small ones (children they call them, I believe) were eating popcorn, extremely carelessly, they dropped a piece or two. Then when I went to plan where I'm going to place the TNT and acid, Comrade noticed a large black ball. That was moving. I'm pretty sure my heart started crying and my hair was falling out from the distress. And my hands shrank from all the sweat. It took a lot of pep talk, both from myself and Comrade, a paper plate and a shnikey ton of toilet paper (sorry Mother Nature, you shouldn't have layed this sinister version of Hades on me) until I could finally dispose of the ball of death into the toilet. You see, they had gathered on the piece of popcorn. And we thought they loved dog food. Nope. Popcorn's where it's at for those smarmy little bastards.

Even more before that, probably in June...: I don't think ants understand that when I shout and throw my arms in the air, it means get the frick out of my house before I destroy your queen in cold... ant juices. Did you know some ants grow wings seasonally? I may have already said that, but you'll have to hear it again. That is ducking fisgusting. I swear, ants are only here to serve as food for other, bigger, scarier and more satanic bugs.

Week 3 in June: And here I had thought this problem would be disposed of by now. I was wrong. Oh, how I was wrong. Hidden curses are thrown the devil bugs' ways, but they don't understand. They are disgusting, mindless robots that eat and puke food back up for a fat, baby-popping, disgusting organism that has an exoskeleton that's just asking to get bombed. I pour water on anthills every chance I get and step on any I see outside when I grudingly walk the dogs. I suspect that they're carrying more of these ants in, or at least transporting them around the house because the a-tard-dilhole-bucket of stupid, Oslow, lays his stupid fluffy butt on small crowds of ants even when my shrill screeching rings true throughout the living room, begging him to stop before I punt his stupid self off the balcony. P3TA (evading search engines. HAH!) probably hates me. When they have an ant infested house along with three brainless fur balls that pee and crap on everything and transport diseases, they can judge me. Until then, bring it biotches. I'll tell you where you can sho- nevermind. Let's be civilized. *throws banana at their heads* Inaudible cursing and muttering. Dilholes.) So we (me and Comrade) plan on giving Cottie, the small chihuahua that sheds like a dying cat and pees on plastic like a freaking cat and has the coloring and tongue of a cow, away to our downstairs neighbor. She's a super hippy and possibly an alci-holic but who am I to judge? Plus she just coos and fawns over the little rat every time she comes upstairs to visit - with knocking, thank God. Her roommate just walks in like she owns the place and it makes me feel like my house just got molested. And what if someone was walking around naked or having an emotional breakdown or a really horrible day and wanted to be left alone and hope like hope that our creepy and hateful neighbors will have the sense to just leave us alone? (Note: only 2 of our neighbors I really dislike. One of them I will call 70's Headphones [because one time she was riding on her bike with her old angry self and had on a hilarious set of 70's radio headphones. Complete with tennis shorts and a tank top.] and Smokey McEighteenhundreds [because I'm pretty sure she's been smoking since the 1800's]) Smokey is the one who doesn't understand the concept of doors or knocking. Headphones is a judgmental lady whose son is a lame excuse for a person. Such a douchehat. What, with his golfing clothes and big black sunglasses and taking up his mom's parking spot, sanity aside. But such is the life of someone who lives in (inaudible), Colorado. 

Notey note (not a part of the Captain's Log. Scroll up, says I. Oh bejeezus, this is so confusing for you guys, I'm sure): As of September 5th, I have readers from 3 different continents. And Alaska. If you're from Alaska, hi! I totally love Alaska! Seriously, I watch Into The Wild 5 times a month at least. It's so pretty up there! And to those from European countries: I like France. And Italy. And Ireland. If you've ever been there, we should totally talk. I mean, you probably ended up here on accident, but hey that's cool. I usually get a crap ton of baby and family blogs and I"m like We have our own kids to deal with. Nobody cares about yours. I'm sorry, your family does but God help us all if I have to read about the fever and ear infections your kid got. I'm offensive sometimes if you didn't know. And everyone else who's not from America, you guys are awesome. I love Canada by the way! Hook it up, non-Americans! And Americans, but only if you're not creepy or not gonna yell at me. That means you, P3TA.(evading search engines. HAH!)

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