Attack of The Ladybugs

I will never complain about the unseasonably warm November in Minnesota, but the ladybugs that refuse to die are really pissing me off. It's hard to sit on a sunny deck and enjoy a midday cocktail when six ladybugs decide to fall into my glass and get drunk too. And yes, I know the scientific name for these pests is "Asian Lady Beetles," or Harmonia axyridis, but that takes too long to type, so I'm just going to call them fuckers.

I hate the fact that every time I open the front door, a few of these fuckers come flying in and immediately adhere themselves to the highest ceiling in the house. When one finally does land on the floor, picking up that slippery fucker makes my hand smell horrible and makes me hate them even more. If I could, I would blame the little fuckers for the fact that the dog is throwing up so much lately. Who knows, maybe the old dog is so blind that he thinks he's eating a fallen chunk of food, when really it's just a nasty, crusty, smelly fucker.

Zoe seems to have a built in radar for these fuckers, and she has a definite "No Fuckers Allowed In The House" policy. Carrying out this policy requires some patience; since I don't keep an extension ladder handy, we have to wait until they descend to our level before we can execute them. Yesterday, she found one on the tile floor, and in an effort to make sure it stayed put until I was able to fetch a kleenex, fenced it in with the only resources available to a five-year-old: a purple crayon.