Ants are everywhere, climbing, roving, searching for sugar. If they had any sense they would be looking for a viable third party candidate. When my wife was awakened by an ant on her face, I had had enough. I called a meet with the queen ant. Here's how it went down.
Me: Your majesty, welcome.
Queen: Thanks. Is that sugar?
Me: (glancing down at shirt) No, that's toothpaste.
Queen: Hey, you gotta ask.
Me: I'll get right to the point. Your fellow ants are all over my kitchen, my bathroom, in my bed. What is it going to take to get them back in the dirt where they belong?
Queen: This election is nuts, am I right?
Me: Wait. You're following the election?
Queen: Oh yeah. People are stress-eating. Cake. Boy, are they eating cake. Cookies. It's fantastic. Crumbs everywhere. Every four years it's a golden age.
Me: We don't leave crumbs. You guys are still all over us, on the couch, at the dining table, hitchhiking into the car. I almost drove off the road yesterday when an ant went down my neck.
Queen: Haha. Sounds like Rudy. Did he have a brown thorax?
Me: I don't know! I swatted him off me and just missed a tanker truck.
Queen: That would explain why he didn't make it to aerobics.
Me: The Internet tells me I should just mix some Borax into powdered sugar and leave a pile for your buddies to take back into the nest to destroy it.
Queen: This is that "20 mule team" Borax?
Queen: Oh, that is delicious. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, baby. And a little high.
Me: You want sugar? We can put a pile outside for you.
Queen: It's hot out there. It's summer. You got central A/C, you got drips of spilled sweet tea, the occasional yogurt cup. Plus, how else are we gonna watch "Orange Is The New Black"?
Me: You watch our TV?
Queen: Only the good stuff. We're not swine.
Me: Do me a favor. Stay out of the bed, at least.
Queen: Done. Do me a favor. Watch more baking shows.
Queen: And bring home that DVD of "Woman In Gold" again. I love me some Helen Mirren.
Me: Queenie, you are preaching to the choir.
. . .