Good afternoon, Uncle Marvin Industries!

Um, hi. I’m calling about one of your company’s ant farms?

Yes! How can I help you?

Well, my son Jack got one for his birthday…

How exciting! Please tell him “Happy Birthday” from us!

His birthday was actually 9 months ago.

Oh!

See, when his friend Jonah gave him the ant farm for a present, I sort of panicked. To be honest, I wasn’t too thrilled by the prospect of actually raising ants in our house. I mean, come on–who likes ants? Not even OTHER ANTS like ants, that’s who likes ants. They’re nasty, they’re greedy and they bite. They’re like the Naomi Campbell of the insect world. “Give me my champagne or I’ll whack you with my Blackberry, bitch!” Ha, ha! Right?

Uh-huh. Was that a British accent you just used?

Maybe. But you know, I do kind of like the fact that ants have a queen. Sort of makes them more European and regal, don’t you think? I mean, rollie-pollies don’t have a queen. Probably why they’re always getting stepped on. Idiots.

OK…

So anyway, I had the ant farm hidden in Jack’s closet for a long time, but, unfortunately, Jack has the instincts of a drug-sniffing German Shepherd and he finally found it wedged under 10 boxes of old clothes and a crate of broken party favors. And now he’s been bugging me non-stop to set it up. Oops! Did I just say “bugging”? Ha!

Yeah, good one, ma’am. Haven’t heard that before.

Anyway, while I was putting together his ant commune, I saw on the instruction sheet that we’re supposed to call this number and order ants?

Yes, you sure are!

But can you tell me why I have to ORDER ants? Can’t I just go round up a few from my pantry? I’m sure there’s at least 40 of them hanging out in the cracker section right now. Maybe 50 if I left the box of Cheez-Its open last night.

Well, ma’am, the ants from Uncle Marvin Industries are special ants. We’ve radiated them so they’re no longer able to reproduce!

Oh. Wow. Can you imagine having THAT job? “Mom, Dad–you’ll never guess what I’m doing with my degree from Harvard Med! I’m sterilizing ants! That’s right, I’m zapping insect gonads! Ziizzzz! No babies for you, Mrs. Ant! Ziiizzz! Those boys of yours ain’t swimmin’ no mo, Mr. Ant!” Oh, man! I feel so sorry for the poor, loser bastard who has to do that job, right?

(long silence)

Let me guess…YOU have to do that job.

Yes, ma’am. Sometimes I do.

OK…well, thanks for your help, but I think I’m just gonna go stick a few rollie-pollies in the old farm and call it a day.

Yes, ma’am, I think that’s probably the best thing for all of us. Thanks for calling.