I have spent much of my time lately reading through Nostradamus’s quatrains, looking for the one that predicts all Earthly vegetation being razed by cutter ants.
They’ve been turning new and old-growth vegetation into confetti for weeks, possibly the last creatures stunned into emergency contributions to the Donald Trump campaign. What’s worse, they couldn’t have been more conspicuous and brazen about it if they were wearing plumed medieval helmets.
And for some reason, unbeknownst to God or man, they will not touch my weeds. I think I yelled out one evening, “I hear the queen loves a good crab grass snack on occasion!”
Someone once told me their trail of troops can extend miles. I did some extrapolating and discovered that creatures the size of splinters organizing a parade one mile long is the equivalent of humans marching around the circumference of the earth carrying bags of trail mix over their heads – without ever stopping to eat it. It was the last straw as I watched the persistent troopers carry portions of my mango tree over my shoe-tips whistling, “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary!”
Bring in the gardener. My gardener just shrugged and drizzled a few ounces of gasoline into the entrances to their nests and went home. He warned me not to light the holes on fire.
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