For the past few months, I made a conscious effort to peacefully coexist with the insects and arachnids. I even allowed a small spider to cohabitate with me in my bedroom. (By “allowed,” I mean it moved in and I did not execute it or remove it from the corner it occupied.) Just the other day, a coworker wanted to kill a bee and I begged for her to spare the bee, which she did. Anyway, before you consider having me canonized, let me inform you that I am calling for jihad against certain winged beasts known as wasps. Here is why.
My willingness to accommodate the existence of critters with more than four legs was conditional. The conditions were that the fuckers don’t touch me and don’t directly interfere with things that I need to do. Apparently, that was too much to ask. On Saturday, I was preparing for a super awesome BBQ when Mr. Rutgers informed me that a wasp stung him on his forehead. I was a bit upset about this because we were attired in wasp colors; Mr. Rutgers was clad in a bright yellow polo and I was wearing a black dress with a yellow belt, yellow bracelet, and yellow flower in my black hair. So, the wasps should have viewed us as friends, not foes.
Evidently, not satisfied with our black and yellow garb, a militia of wasps had convened at the gate to the Garden of MoMo. The fence is massive. Of all of the locations on the fence for this wasp convention, they just had to choose the gate. And, they didn’t choose just any location on the gate. They opted for the exact point where the humans must place their hands to open the damn gate. These devils were clearly looking for a fight. No problem. I removed my flip flop and tried to employ the ninja combat flip flop skills I’ve witnesses my mom use on serpents and insects alike. I turned my head and swatted at one of the wasps. Before I knew it, another wasp had swooped in onto my favorite finger – my right hand, middle finger. Suddenly, I felt an intense burning sensation as if the little fucker had vomited hydrochloric wasp acid on my precious, gesturing finger. Needless to say, I dropped the flip flop and ran away screaming as though I had been scorched by the fire of seventeen angry dragons.
Fear not, the story does not end there. Standing a distance was the ultimate warrior of all Garden of MoMo intruders – my mother. Having more foresight than I, she knew the flip flop was not the appropriate weapon of choice in this circumstance. (Yeah, I could hardly believe that there was a circumstance in which an ethnic woman with a flip flop wouldn’t prevail.) Instead, she opted for wasp spray. She doused the gate in spray and repeatedly yelled, “Who’s your gatekeeper, bitches? Go meet your maker. This is my house!!” Okay, she didn’t repeat it over and over. In fact, she didn’t say that at all, but it’s funnier to imagine it that way.
These were no ordinary wasps because they were able to withstand what was supposed to be death spray. Throughout the day, they remained on the gate. Still upset at their cohort’s damage to my “fuck you” finger, I successfully took the lives of three wasps with my flip flop later that day. As far as I know, there were no more human casualties. So, we won the battle, but we have to keep our eyes on the prize. There are still so many wasps out there. If you see one, immediately annihilate it and tell it MoMo sent you. Do it for all of the middle fingers out there.
Other heartwarming stories about my experiences with nature:
Spiders, Spiders Everywhere!!! They Must Die.
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