Luke sat and ate his pancake while I buzzed away at Mom and Dad's bushes this morning. He could see me through the kitchen window because I was working on the bushes by the garage and he laughed and laughed and laughed at me with my bandana, orange ear plugs, pitchfork and wasp spray. I would buzz about a foot and have to stop when the wasps exploded out of the branches. I'd hunt down the nest with the pitchfork and then douse the little suckers with poison that attacks the central nervous system so that they'd start falling like moths who hit the lightbulb. The nasty buggers organized eight barrage attacks and sent several kamikaze flights straight into my line of fire. I thought I had taken care of all the wasps a few days ago, and that I could go out to peacefully prune the bushes. But as it turns out, they all stayed well under cover until the last moment, and then they climbed out on the ends of branches and leered at me with those satanic, striped little faces. I was besieged, and after unleashing my fury on eight nests with no end in sight I was starting to lose hope in the cause. Hope was restored when Mom came out in her housecoat, nightgown, and sunglasses to provide backup. She re-named me Laura Thiessen, Wasp Killer Extraordinaire and I do believe I can hold that title proudly. The only good wasp is a dead wasp.
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