It's not that I hate ants. I love ants. But they seem to think they can just set up shop under the patio and ruin the foundation for the bricks. Let me tell you, Queen and all your minions, I've seen the mortgage papers for this place, and you're not on the title. So you have to go.
But how? A trip to the neighborhood store that sells all the domestic poisons shows two options. One, a spray that kills ants individually. Pull up a chair, watch the hill, pick 'em off as they appear. Seems like a lot of work.
The other is the poison bait trap. You snip off the end and place it by their front door. "Kills the Queen!" says the box, which sounds so Shakespearean you wonder if the instructions are in sonnet form.
The ants pick up some of the sweet poison and take it home, whereupon everyone dies. Not all at once, though. There's time for that one guy who brought it home to get a really serious reprimand in his personnel file. It works, I guess, but it depends on the ants doing the important part. Why can't I just pour the stuff down the hole?
"Oh, no," the inventor says. "That would be too crude. It lacks the satisfying knowledge that the ants themselves are the instruments of their destruction."
OK, but the important part here is "destruction," so maybe if I just inject the stuff into the hole ...
"No! The grim pleasure arises from knowing that the ants cannot help but bring about their ruin, that the lowliest worker in the performance of its duties delivers a fatal gift to the monarch in her chambers! And in her dying, she knows she is undone by the mechanics of her social constructs, a regime she was unable, for all her power, to undo!"
Dude, they're ants, not French nobility. Let me squirt it down the hole.
