So I come home last night and the ladies are on their way to a a baseball game. Fine so far. Play a little GT4 and then I will join them. Except no, to both because our house is overrun by giant atomic ants and I must battle to the death with them, with Matt Dillon at my side. Funny that the ladies neglected to mention this. I find out about the rampaging hordes in my kitchen because the tiny motherfuckers are biting the shit out of my bare feet.
Here in the desert, we have a lot less bugs, but Judas H. Priest are the ones we have mean ass mofos. Scorpions, black Widows, killer bees and sabre toothed ants.
Die, you f***ing f***ers.
This morning, I pass bear’s room to go wake the monkey. *Ouch, man, that felt like something bit me.* Wifey: *uh, yeah. Right here.* A new front opened up, where the ant army attacked bear’s room from the bathroom across the hall. So much for the, “no, daddy, I don’t have any food in my room.”
So, no H2G2 excursions this weekend, in favor of coercing the kiddoes into getting all the g**d***ed ant bait (popsicles, candy, hot pockets, roast pheasant) out of their f***ing bedrooms. And mine, because “no food ever in your bedrooms,””no food ever in my bedroom” and “stay the hell out of my bedroom with that Ravioli” are all somehow vague and unintelligible to young Winx Club and Cheetos addicted brains.