An open letter to the wasps of Walnut Shade

Dear Wasps,

I humbly acknowledge that God made you all a few hours before us humanoids, but I think you’ve taken this entitlement mentality just a few wing flaps too far.

Why, for example, must you spend so MUCH time banging your heads into the ceiling of my kitchen?  I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time in there lately, and I am more than a little tired of your constant whizzing and crashing.

And while we’re at it, how the heck are you getting in in the first place?  (Sigh) I’m guessing you’ll claim it’s the laundry room door, and you’ll probably want to press charges for what you perceive to be my unlawful six-hour detention of your relative between the storm door and the laundry room door on Tuesday, but lemme tell you, “this ain’t no Guantanamo,” and in my defense, I did try THREE TIMES to let him out.  Frankly, I think he may be playing with only half a deck or something, because even though I stood there holding the door to the outside WIDE OPEN, he insisted on continuing his head-banging routine with the window glass.  Sheesh.

Then there’s the issue of mortality; more specifically where and how your kind chooses to die.  I got in the van yesterday – um, that would be the van parked  on the driveway with all the windows tightly closed – and two of your compatriots were dead on the dash.  That, in and of itself, wasn’t particularly unnerving, but they had positioned themselves symmetrically before passing on to their final reward.  One was four inches in from the left and the other was four inches in from the right.  Come on now; what’s up with that?!?

And if you guys are really as superior as you make yourselves out to be, why in the name of all that is holy holey can you never simply go back out the way you came in?

Look, I’m not a masochist, and I’m not waging jihad against you.  I don’t want you dead; I just want you out of my house and my car.  Is that really too much to ask? After all, those two entities together comprise only about 20,192 cubic feet of airspace.  Pretty restrictive for guys with wings, huh?  Especially when you’ve got the WHOLE REST OF THE WORLD to inhabit, for crying out loud!

But if you stubbornly refuse to leave, could you please just let up on the intimidation tactics?  Andrew totally freaks out when you practice your ballistic missile dive bomb routines.  In fact, if you’d just volume down a few notches, I think all would be well.


Walnut Shade Mom

P.S.  I could pull out the RAID, you know.


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