Around the year of my birth, 1945, fire ants invaded the United States from Argentina. They showed up in Mobile, Alabama, ready for a fight and spread north from there.
The ants made their way to Nevada several years ago. One hero stood in their path to keep them from taking over the state.
That man was me, a regular guy in Washoe Valley.
The fire ants brought a battalion of soldiers marching to the orders of their queen ant. They flaunted their numbers in a section of weeds behind my garage.
I rushed to The Home Depot. I found a big yellow can with a scary name. On the face of the can was a picture of three fire ants on their backs, dead as doornails.
Returning home armed (and putting myself in danger), I liberally sprinkled the contents of the can over the invading ants. They looked confused and started bumping into each other.
I retreated to my home for several hours.
Upon my return to the battlefield, the fire ants seemed to have tripled in number. They looked larger and more fierce than before.
I surrendered. I’m sorry, Nevada.