The Terminator

We are currently dealing with a swarm of termites. They come into our kitchen through an air duct vent in the kitchen. Obviously this is signals a bigger infestation problem and I should call an exterminator, but that would assume I am a reasonable person rather than one who derives great pleasure from killing the little suckers one by one. I stand in the kitchen armed with my vacuum extension wand and well, it’s kind of magical. Though I’m uncomfortable with the untold damage they are undoubtedly doing to the house, my naked blood lust exceeds any structural concerns.

Do I feel terrible about this? Not really. Is it possible to be selectively cruel? Ask any member of our termite colony and they would say yes, using me as their example.

I killed five of the little bastards just before sitting down to write this and I’m still feeling the rush. Sam finds my sporadic vacuuming and war whoops irritating, which I get, but as I told him, termite swarms last less than a week and happen a couple of times a year, and he bites his fingernails every day.

This is going to be a short entry because I like to get them as soon as they emerge from the duct, before they shed their wings and mate. It’s a short window of opportunity within a short window of opportunity for me to become a stone-cold killer.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a job to do.