Killing is Complicated

I've been on a killing spree. It's been great. And I don't want to hear anything about it from all you moral crusaders up on your high horses about how killing is all that bad.

A bunch of wasps have attempted to colonize my dwelling. And not the Blackie Lawless or Brooks Brothers kinds.

There's a crack in the pane of glass in our middle front window. It's horrible, cause it's one of those poured glass glass windows, so it's really great to look at and through.

But these bastards are sneaking in and building up a breeding ground hive thing.

And if you know me at all you know two things. I have personal space issues. And I'm terrified of flying insects.

Add in the stinging and the devil form of the damn things and I'm doing a George W Bush preemptive come in and bomb your ass into the Stone Age sort of thing.

So I got a can of some wasp death spray foam and popped the window open and blasted those bastards. The bodies are still at the scene of the crime.

And then, just yesterday when I got back from teaching, some other bunch of those sumanabeeches had begun building one on the back staircase. And fast, too.

So they went the way of the first ones. With equal, if not greater cataclysm, as the attack had been effected from above.

I don't care if it makes me a bad person and I have to pay for it in an infinite number of afterlives, which would be perfectly fair, I think I'll be zapping every future wasp that attempts to invade my domicile.