"Kill them! Kill them all TO DEATH!"I kill them all TO DEATH and The Fragrant Mrs Duck is well pleased with my handiwork.
And so end my principles. Although a godless heathen, I thoroughly dislike killing any living creature, unless it is for the purposes of tasty, tasty meat, and even then it is farmed out to a faceless operator at a slaughterhouse, by way of punishment for not listening at school. Or having a face.
But: Ants.
Our holiday villa is full of ants, carting us all away down their hole like that Tom and Jerry cartoon where they're having a picnic.
On the second day, they are slightly larger, and the next day larger still. By the time we are packed to go home, passage to the hire car is barred by what is to be the Boss Battle.
In my best Daffy Duck: "This means war."
It was inevitable, then, that I should have a delirious, drunken dream in which I battle giant ants which have invaded the eighth hole at Weymouth Golf Centre, spoiling the best round of golf my myself and North Korea's vertically-challenged strongman Kim Jong-Il have ever played.
Also, I hope Doctor Who's head grows back in his next regeneration.
Then I woke up, my pillow was gone, and vampire ants (the final stage before the Boss Battle) had sucked every last juice from out of my body.
At least I thought it was vampire ants.
No comments:
Post a Comment