“This is my can of Raid. There are many others like it, but this one is mine. My Raid is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my Raid is useless. Without my Raid, I am useless. I must fire my Raid true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy, who is trying to sting me. I must shoot him before he stings me. I will. Before God I swear this creed: my Raid and myself are defenders of my house, we are the masters of our enemy, we are the saviors of my backyard. So be it, until there is no enemy, but peace. Amen.”

It dragged on, this war, skirmish upon skirmish — first near the rose garden, then by the grill. Then in the grill, those yellow pointy bastards, and then, after a grand tactical effort flushing the legs of the grill with water and watching them float down the water trail to their waspy doom, there was peace. Blissful peace. There was grilling, and sprinkler-splashing, and hope restored.

Until we saw another camp crop up: under the kids' water table. We flipped it over, scorching the territory with the blistering sun, and we settled into an uneasy watch. Our top spy ( the neighbor kid who mows our lawn ) came through with decisive intel:

“The Bird Feeder is awash with enemy spies.”

This was it! I grabbed Bertha, my can of Raid, carefully polished the nozzle; got her ready for the showdown to come. I waited, drenched in sweat, for twilight to arrive.

The sun below the horizon, I crept, finger fighting twitches on Bertha’s trigger. One. Easy. Step. At. A. Time.

Until i felt something brush my shoulder! I dove behind the swingset, taking cover as I wondered if this was a suicide mission, and my life was about to end in a swirl of bug-eyes and stingers.

But it was just a breeze.

I finally made it to the birdfeeder. There was a full base hidden under the green and blue plastic! This must be the secret headquarters of the Wasp Nation! Without thinking I unloaded Bertha full-spray, an animal roar escaping my lips as the paper soaked up the Raid and began to drip, wasp after wasp dropping, writhing to stillness.

In what seemed like slow motion, I released Bertha’s trigger, turned, and trudged back to the house. Mission Accomplished.

Your move, motherfuckers.