The Ramblings of Ridiculicious

International Humorist

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I Do Not Have Ants in My Pants
     So today, the pest control guy finally came to spray for the millions of ants that have been crawling out of such places as the sink and the dishwasher.  The guy looked just like he stepped out of a William Bourroughs' novel. I suppose you can't really have a normal pest control guy, but this guy was downright spooky.

     He arrived with his "kit" and placed it down on the kitchen floor so he could sit on it. "Okay then, I guess I'll leave you to it," I said and walked back to my office. 

     About five minutes later I hear:  "Ma'am?"  I go out to the kitchen and he's still sitting on his kit. He points to the fridge where there is a picture of my friend Peter on Halloween, wearing  this hilarious mask that looks like he's undergoing a facial. Complete with the cucumbers on the eyes and everything. "Is that you?"  he asks pointing to the picture.
      "Uh-no, "  I say, "That's my friend Peter." And why the fuck are you looking at my fridge? Spray dammit and get the hell out of here.
      "Phew!" he says, "I thought that was you!  I was worried there for a minute. "  Then he laughs in this high-pitched squeal.  I give him a funny look and then return to my office.

     About 15 minutes later, I assume that he is gone, so I go into the kitchen and he's still sitting there on his case.  "What are you doing ?" I say.  He tells me he's trying to see or hear the pests in question. I say, "You do know you are spraying for ants right? I mean they are right there on the floor!"  He nods and shushes me. I walk back to my office, grabbing my cell phone off the kitchen table on the way, in case I have to dial 911.

     Five minutes later, he comes back to my bedroom where my office is. He is holding this glue gun-looking thing and  he says, "Okay, I'm ready to spray!"  He's actually holding it like it's his cock.
     "Wait!," I cry, "You don't need to spray in my bedroom. Spray in the kitchen! Where the food and the ants are!"  I push him out of my bedroom.  "You know I have a dog," I say this hoping this will deter him from raping me. I point to my dog who is passed out on my bed with his tongue out.
     "Oh!" he laughs, "This stuff won't hurt your dog."  I usher him back to the kitchen.

     Five minutes after that, I go to the kitchen and he's packing up his case. "Okay, that'll do it!" he says. "You should really see a difference in 30 days." Thirty days! Of course I'll see a difference, the damn things will be wintering in Florida by then.
      Then he says:  "But I want you to call me in five days so I know how it's going."  Then he carefully writes out his name and phone number in red pen on my empty Lean Cuisine box in the kitchen. The minute he leaves, I throw the number and the box in the trash.

     Now, I feel like I've got to call a pest control guy to get rid of the pest control guy. 

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This entry made me shudder in vicarious disgust. If I ever get an infestation, I'm making Andrew deal with the exterminator - I'm not self sacrificing enough to subject myself to that element so he won't have to.

When you think about it, anyone whose chosen profession is killing bugs has got to be extraordinarily creepy, just like medical examiners and third-shift janitors.

I always think of Dale from King of the Hill.

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