Invasion

The wife called me to the bedroom Sunday afternoon. I knew she had no sudden and unexpected sexual need to be fulfilled since it was mid-afternoon and the boy was home and she apparently has none of those urges. I went anyway.

She pointed out the seldom use patio doors at a steady stream of flying insects shooting from the lower right corner of the sliding door. I ventured out for a look and discovered a small hole, around the size of a fifty-cent piece was at the base of the wood trim. Flying in and out in a steady stream was a virtual herd of yellow jackets. I know, I said the same thing. Sanctified turds, indeed.

I grabbed my giant-sized bug spray from the garage and set it on fine stream. I sprayed the hell out of the hole and everyone of the buzzing mofos I could get. I sprayed into the hole, around the hole, everywhere. The yellow jackets did not think too much of that, I promise you. They were dying by the dozens, yet more arrived in a steady stream of flight. I swear it was like the afternoon rush hour at Atlanta Hartsfield or O'Hare, they were staged up from the fence down to the hole where they died an agonizing death. And still they came.

I looked out this morning as I was preparing for my day, and sure enough, they were buzzing in and out like nothing happened. They were ignoring the corpses of their fellows. I sprayed again, using the last of my bug killer. Again, they died by the dozens. The flow out stopped, but they kept coming from little yellow jacket destinations.

I checked a few minutes ago and the two flow is back to mid-Sunday afternoon form. I am not sure what to do. I have a can of industrial foam I can spray in the hole, provided I can get close enough without being stung. I am afraid I will have to call an exterminator.