Pudgy Fingers

 

On Sunday, during our morning walk, picking up trash ejected from cars, by people whose time and energy is too vital to take their beer cans, cigarette packs, burger wrappers and bags, and in this case, Kentucky Fried Chicken boxes complete with uneaten wings and biscuits (inhale), I noticed that some ants had found the ejected food stuffs and were making a picnic of it. 

I threw the wings and biscuits into the bushes to allow the picnic to continue and crumpled up the box and paper.  It was in the crumpling stage that I noticed the wee beasties were injecting fire into my hands.  Thus the name fire ants. 

If any of you have never had an encounter with this specific brand of the insect kingdom, don’t even think about comparing it to any other experience.  When I was in Ethiopia, I walked through a column of army ants because I was a dumb American who was half asleep at that obscene hour of the morning.  The rest of the work crew considered my dance rather entertaining as I tangoed across the work site, ending up in the concrete mixing trough.  Those dudes take out chunks of flesh.  The ants I mean.

But I will assert that the tune of pain accompanying my sashay into the concrete cannot be compared to the blooming agony that spread across my hands as I crumpled the Colonel’s packaging.  These little red nasties don’t bite, they sting.  Remember, fire?

We went to the ballet that evening, dolled up and happy to see Tchaikovsky’s  fantasy of Sleeping Beauty swooping around the stage.  I sat there feeling my left hand and a few fingers of my right slowly expanding, and watched blisters mark where the fire had been injected.

I guess it’s only fair, I messed up their picnic.  But I think it’s a rather extreme reaction.  If they do this for KFC wings and a biscuit, I think we should consider enlisting them as a weapon of mass destruction.