A few nights ago, I was sitting on the LA-Z-BOY in my living room, surfing the web. I glanced down at the floor and saw one of the biggest ants ever. After letting out a womanly shriek I scrambled to get a paper towel from the kitchen before it could crawl into a crevice and be lost forever.
I tried picking it up with the paper towel, but it kept crawling away. After several tries, I finally got it. Instead of squishing it, I decided to throw it in the toilet. Normally, I would flush without thinking. But I hesitated. I watched the abnormally large ant swim around, trying with all its might to get to some dry ground. I took my hand off the flusher. I could not kill this insect.
The ant finally got to the end of the bowl, crawled up, then slid down. This happened a few more times before I began to feel bad. I couldn’t kill this ant after we shared this intense experience together. It would be like Keanu Reeves flushing Sandra Bullock down the toilet at the end of “Speed.” But I had to think fast. The ant wouldn’t last much longer in the frigid toilet waters.
I found an empty mouthwash bottle. This was the lifeboat that would save the little-ant-that-could. I hovered it over the water, coercing the ant into crawling on it. It took a little time to convince the ant. I guess I would be weary of me too. I’m the one who put him in the toilet, after all.
Ant crawled around on the bottle while I twirled it accordingly to keep him on the top end at all times. Finally, I opened the front door of my house and gently placed Ant on the ground.
“Good bye, my friend. And good luck out there,” I said.
The ant scurried away, off to parts unknown. Who knows where it ended up. I like to think of him starting a family of little ants. Ants that will no doubt infest my house in an act of revenge for the torture I put their father through.