What the fuck? I'm serious. What. The. Fuck. Were. You. Guys. Thinking. I'm so beyond done with all of you that I'm seriously thinking about investing in a goddamn flamethrower for the next time I run into any of you. I know other people might think that a flamethrower is a bit of an overkill for ants and should only be used on nopes like giant fucking spiders or "holy-shit-that's-a-huge-fucking-tree-roach-and-it-just-flew-at-my-face" roaches. And normally they would be right. But after last week, I am so goddamn done with you guys.
"What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?!"
Listen up, you sassy motherfucker, I'll tell you what you did. You thought it would be really fucking funny to get a bunch of your friends together and crawl into my hamper. My CLOTHES hamper. Not my food hamper. And most certainly not my ANT hamper. I don't even think an ant hamper is a thing, but if it was, I would set it on fire. Twice. Fuck you guys. I had thrown a clean pair of shorts and shirt in there because I was lazy and didn't feel like putting them away. I was going to wear them shortly anyway. Excuse the shit out of me. Imagine my fucking surprise when after a couple of minutes of wearing it, you decided to bite my armpit. MY. ARMPIT. What the fuck is wrong with you?! Who does that? That was rhetorical, you little cockgobbler. Obviously you do. I know- I was there. And I'm sure you guys were laughing it up the whole time because as of then, I hadn't figured out that you guys were in my hamper. I had an issue with your brethren previously trying to claim our bathroom for their own which because they didn't have a flag didn't work out for them. I thought maybe I had accidentally left enough survivors that they were able to regroup and try again, and maybe that's how I ended up with you bastards in my clothes. I checked for more of you douchecanoes, but didn't see anything. I thought that was weird, but chalked it up to being an isolated incident. I came home from work the next day just to check to see if you guys were confused about whether or not it was cool to take up residence in our bathroom. Nothing. Okay. Cool.
"Waaaait a minute...check the hamper," said my brain.
"Whhaaaaa? No way...there's no way that's where they're coming from."
"Just do it," my brain insisted. So I did.
Really? There you guys were- running about my clothes hamper as if it were your personal fucking playground full of delicious treats. Well, guess who was fucking wrong? That's right- another rhetorical question. You know what's in a clothes hamper? I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count. That's right! FUCKING CLOTHES! Not food. There was no food in my hamper. Trust me, if there was food to be had, I would have Hoovered it up way before you bastards ever got to it. There was no candy. There were no Nacho Cheese Doritos. Just clothes. You guys don't eat clothes. Nor are you big enough to wear my clothes. So stay the fuck out of my hamper. What did being in my hamper get you? For some of you, your meaningless little life was snuffed out by my foot. For others, I drowned you and then burned you in the washer and dryer. For those that escaped the previous two fates, resistance was futile. All that surviving got you was a healthy dose of poison. I sprayed the shit out of you guys and enjoyed every second of it. I will do it again if I have to.
So in summary:
|This will be us the next time I find you in my hamper or anywhere else you don't goddamn belong.|
p.s. ARE YOU FUCKING SORRY?!