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Ants are Rude


Ants are very inconsiderate animals. Anytime you leave anything of taste open they claim it as theirs.

Where in the world is it possible to enter someone’s house without invite and help yourself to what ever is on offer.

Not only this I remember being smacked very hard for putting my feet on anything but the floor, while these cretins walk not only everywhere my mother declared as sacrosanct and sponged heavily day and night till not only the grease was gone but your reflection shone better than a mirror, they do it with their friends.

Sometime they even decide to bite me for not reason. The stupidity of it is, if you wake a sleeping lion be expected to absorb the consequences. If Jainism is correct, I am fucked, because the amount of ants I kill in a day will send me into Samsara for an infinite possible time, and being indoctrinated by religion when ever I do carry out my genocide, I am plagued by guilt at the same time. Perhaps not all religions, but definitely being an ex catholic. As a selfish individual, I don’t really care if the world cant evolve into the new level of enlightenment until all sentient being have reached enlightenment because I will be the one all holding you all back boiling the little fuckers as long as they eat my honey, having to re-live each life I kill and the more you send me back the more I will do it. So if Jainism is correct, I suggest you take a utilitarian stance and let me be enlightened for the sake of 9 billion people I stop from reaching the angelic dimensions hippy spiritualist talk about (which is the violet realm if I am correct).

To be honest, really you should be punishing my mother since she was the one to bring me up in this rather fascist ideology, and since I might have fled the tentacles of Catholicism I haven’t fled the rules of the house my half Irish catholic mother, beat into me with iron fist and clover. Of course she was not all that bad, she let me have a choice in punishment I thought I deserved, revolving around her shoe, a hand and a spiky hair brush. The hand by the way was adorned with a metal torture instrument I believe they call a wedding ring. I don’t refer to it as a torture instrument I being the one  to suffer by, it was her form of showing her suffering, much like the Catholic form of Opus Die who wear metallic barbed wire around their thighs, only I think this wedding ring was worse.

The idea of boiling ants was indoctrinated into me by grandmother whom I loved dearly. She was s fervent gardener, an old English rose, a bit picky, prudent, and terribly middle class. So much so, she could not be accept a meal with her children at someone else’s house if it had not been offered before the day started???

Anyway, my earliest childhood memory of her is an old woman running around a stoned fixed Garden in Lymington, wedged kettle in hand pouring scorching water down ant holes complaining they spoiled the place, much like a castle pouring boiling oil on northerners also complaining they where spoiling the place.

Back to point, I feel like some looming God, walking across the universe called my abode, casting a gaze down upon unknown beings, the sort of God you feel that is watching you when you have a wank. Yes, I definitely was a Catholic. Twenty ants are all walking over my hot chocolate spoon. I prod it, whereby they all run away as if they were up to something no good. By their action I know, I really know, they know they were not where they were supposed to be, which gives me full 007 licence to kill every fucker by drowning from SPONGE CLOTH. Squeeze the water all over them until they fall into the sink and then run the tap, laughing in a half crazed Genius World hater cackle, drown mother fucker drown.

At this point some of you might think I am mad. Not really, I am merely expressing myself, like I should have been able to as a child by drawing all over my mothers expensive terracotta patterned wall paper, in our middle class house beleaguered by shity little trinkets of cow creamers lined up on a KITCHEN DRESSER and fucking ducks, the archetypal symbol of bourgeoisie lack of imagination, displayed on the wall to the upstairs flat.

Yes I was harassed and tortured by middle class imagination, what vacuous hole there was.

To get to the point, all I really wanted to say was black ants also bite just as much as red ant.




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