With a houseful of kids, every day a bite of fruit, a drip of juice, or some other ant-attractant escapes our cleanup attempts. Not so the ants. This morning a well-organized army of formicidae was working on a sandwich container with strawberry jam on its edges. I moved the container to the sink and rinsed its food particles and 50 or so ant passengers down the sink. They hadn’t paid for tickets, so that’s what they get. It was only a few seconds before a couple more ants found their way to the scene of the crime.
“I don’t know, Joe. The trail leads here—right here.”
“There’s nothing here, Bob.”
“I can see there’s nothing here. But I’m telling you, the scent is fresh. Where did everybody go?”
“Still nothing here, Bob.”
“I know, but . . . Quiet, Joe—I think I hear something. It sounds like . . . screaming. And it’s close. Very close. In fact, it sounds like it’s right behind me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was you, Joe. Hahaha. Joe?”
The remainder of this scene has been censored so as to not upset young viewers. We’ll just say Bob didn’t make it either.