The Bigger They are, the Harder They Fall.

I love mowing over anthills. It's so much fun to feel the slight bump as the mower inhales the grimy mounds and then watch the dirt spewing out of the mower's jaws. If you look carefully, you can even see the tiny demons themselves go hurdling into the wild blue yonder, separated by many ant miles from their former dwelling. Excuse me, abolished former dwelling.

Does that sound harsh and cruel and unfeeling? If so, you've obviously never had ants swarm your ankles whenever you come near their abode.

Hellooo, ants, I was totally here first! I've lived right here since I was two, so y'all can just take your little booties off my property, or be content with me passing within a two inch radius of your nasty mound if I want to. Hear?

But you know what? They aren't content with that. The man-flesh loving demons want to feel your tender skin between their teeth, (or whatever it is they bite with, maybe they sting; I don't know,) and then they want to curl up and die right there on your wound. Talk about instant gratification! You'd think that by now they would've received the memo informing them that immediate death is the result of chowing down on innocent victims.

Nope.

And until they do receive that memo, I'm going to take lots of satisfaction in crushing them and their houses with the lawn mower.