I Have Ants In My Pants

Not this ant.

Not this ant.

Well, I did, but I don’t now. I killed those fuckers. I realize that my pants contain glories that can transport one to heights of pleasure or to the depths of despair, but I won’t even give that much to ants. They get death.

I don’t know where they’re coming from. I don’t know why they’re coming. I don’t know what their intentions are. OK, I do know that last bit. Their intentions are the complete destruction of the human race through a clever combination of annoyance attacks, reproductive ability, and extreme patience.

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