Well, here we are in the middle of March and you know what that means. Yep, it means it’s time for the annual march of the ants, straight into my pantry. Dagnabit, those critters better not mess with my Frosted Flakes or – even worse – my Honey Smacks, cuz “I Dig ‘em,” which is what Froggy Boy sez on the front of the box.
The ants go marching one-by-one, hurrah, hurrah,the ants go marching one-by-one, the little one stops to suck his thumb and they all go marching down to the ground to get out of the rain. (“The Ants Go Marching – Traditional children’s song)
Not to worry, though, I have a solution. It’s what I like to call “The Trail of Tears,” a trail accented with Raid ant and roach spray.
The ants go marching ten-by-ten, hurrah, hurrah. The ants go marching ten-by-ten, the little one stops to shout, “The End.”
Even though it’s the end of the Trail of Tears for most of the little buggers, there’s always a few that escape and high-tail-it to Lake Gregory to rehydrate and search for a rubber tree plant.
Next time you’re found with your chin to the ground, there’s a lot to be learned, look around. Just what makes that little old ant think he’ll move that rubber tree plant. Anyone knows an ant can’t move a rubber tree plant. But he’s got high hopes, he’s got high hopes, he’s got high apple pie in the sky hope. So, anytime you’re getting’ low, ‘stead of lettin’ go, just remember that ant, oops, there goes another rubber tree plant. When troubles call and your back’s to the wall, there’s a lot to be learned, that wall could fall.
Just hope that silly old ant doesn’t attempt to punch a hole in the dang dam (excuse my cussin’) like that silly old Ram. Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute, buster, stop runnin’ toward the dam, Oh, no!
Now that I got rid of all the little critters, it’s that time of the year when the weeds need to be trimmed before it starts heating up and, before you know it, it’s wildfire season again. So, I’m gonna fire up that weed whacker I gifted the missus with last Mother’s Day, you know, the one she whacked me with… some women just don’t know a good thing when they see it. Well, I’d best go now before she reads this and whacks me again.
Keep it flyin’,
Uncle Mott
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