We’re Not Gonna Take It
They’re baaaack, the ants that is. What with last week’s wet, cold weather, the little buggers decided to go where it’s warm and invade my pantry. But when they got into my Honey Smacks the other day, that was the last straw. “Oh, we’re not gonna take it. No, we ain’t gonna take it. Oh, we ain’t gonna take it anymore…” (“We’re Not Gonna Take It” – Twisted Sister – 1984)
I find it interesting that, over the years, what was originally labeled as Sugar Smacks morphed into Honey Smacks, then to just plain Smacks, and now back to Honey Smacks. Not that this has anything to do with ants but, when it comes to breakfast cereal, I dearly love my Smacks. You might even say I “Dig ‘Em.”
But it wasn’t just the Honey Smacks; it was also the Frosted Flakes, Mini-Wheats and everything else I had to toss out because I refuse to eat anything that has had subterranean creatures crawling all over it. “This means war,” I decried as I issued an immediate Fatwa on these filthy, ravenous pests. (Fatwa, for folks in San Berdoo, refers to an Islamic declaration of war, not a big meal at the House of Waffles.)
Normally, I’m a peace-loving, nonviolent person, but these little pests have crossed the red line so, if I systematically wipe them off of the face of my cupboard, does this make me a natural born killer? I think not.
Let’s see now – if I’m walking down the sidewalk and I accidentally step on an ant, does that make me a murderer? I mean, I didn’t do it on purpose; it just sort of happened, accidentally, so I guess it could be considered antslaughter. I mean, you have to draw the line somewhere, and today I’m drawing the line at ants. I’ve decided they’re disposable, unlike my Honey Smacks, which I had to dispose of all because of them.
“We’ve got the right to choose and there ain’t no way we’ll lose. This is our life, this is our song. We’ll fight the powers that be, just don’t pick our destiny, ‘cause you don’t know us, you don’t belong.” (Twisted Sister)
So, I cleared out all the cupboards and spayed ant poison all over the place. Then I got some industrial-strength pesticide and sprayed it around the perimeter of the stately Motley Manor.
“There, that ought to fix their little red wagons!” I thought to myself as I set about ripping out all the soiled shelf paper and replacing it with self-adhering shelf liner. A word of caution, here…never attempt lining your cupboards with self-adhering shelf paper lest you have four hands available to do so. Otherwise, this self-adhering shelf paper will end up self-adhering to yourself, like it did to my loving wife before I stepped in to lend two more hands.
“Oh, we’re not gonna take it. No, we ain’t gonna take it. Oh, we ain’t gonna take it anymore.”
Keep it flyin’, Uncle Mott