So, it's hot enough to kill the only thing I've never managed to kill with my black thumb - the lawn. It turned a sickly yellowish brown. Is grass supposed to crunch when you walk on it? I'm pretty sure it isn't.
Since the epic heat wave hit, a colony of super wasps have taken up residence somewhere near my front porch. Since my yard is completely flat, bereft of trees and my "porch" is a poured cement slab, I can't figure where the cursed things have made their nest. I'm afraid to do a Google search for "giant killer wasps," because, the last time I searched an insect, I convinced myself a daddy long legs was actually a poisonous Brown Recluse and had a minor mental meltdown.
I'm fairly certain these super wasps are even bigger than Waspzilla, which I slayed two summers ago in an epic clash in which I (figuratively) rode into battle armed with a meat fork.
Now that I think about it, Waspzilla may have been a scout for this tribe of super wasps, roaming nomadically until they could find a new home near a human being too terrified to call the Orkin Man. Perhaps, it's the genetically engineered descendants of that original Waspzilla. Son of Waspzilla, maybe?
Anyway, I had enough with the super wasps. I came to this realization when I found one lurking in the kitchen, just waiting to pounce when I was distracted.
So I pulled out my trusty meat fork. It had served me well in battle before. (That and an extraordinarily lucky swing which crippled Waspzilla enough for me to deliver the coup de grace.)
I rushed into the breach - given courage by my successful land campaign against the spider menace the week before - and began swinging at the winged intruder like a madwoman. (Albeit, one who was very concerned about accidentally smashing the china cupboard.) This wily wasp evaded my every blow.
Drawn by my battle cries, the Long Suffering Husband wandered into the room.
"What are you doing?"
"Killing this wasp!" I ducked and shrieked as it made a kamikaze run at my head.
" ... with a meat fork?"
"Yes!" I brandished my weapon at the wasp, which made like it hadn't just been locked in intense battle and was nonchalantly buzzing around the fluorescent light. (Just where I couldn't reach it; I was on to its ploy.)
"You can't use that." He disarmed me, tossing my weapon in the sink. "We use that to cook."
"I was going to wash it afterwards!" Had he sided with Son of Waspzilla?
He took off his sneaker, eyed the wasp as it circled the light (no doubt plotting its next nefarious move) and thwacked it with his sneaker. It fell, thoroughly crushed and dead, to the floor. It looked piteous and pathetic in death.
"I could have done that." I crossed my arms.
He tugged his sneaker back on. "No, you couldn't."
"Yes, I could. I wasn't afraid of it, you just didn't give me a chance to kill it. I am on an insect-killing spree, here. I killed that spider last week. I don't need you to kill insects for me anymore. I can do it myself."
"But you can't reach the ceiling."
(Wallace-Minger, The Weirton Daily Times community editor, is a Weirton resident and can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org)