Scott: 1 1/2, !@#$% Wasps: 0

I hate stinging insects. Flying ones, whether they're bees, wasps, or whatever, are even worse for me. I wouldn't say that I have a phobia, but it's pretty close. It's bad enough that I flinch any time one flies near me. Let's just say that the few times I was stung as a lad gave more than a healthy paranoia for anything with a stinger.

That brings us to yesterday. Remember those charming cicada killer wasps I wrote about last summer? Well, they're back. No, I take that back, they're not just back, they're BACK. It seems that my yard was so popular last year that some enterprising wasp opened up a time share and invited all of the extended family over for the Summer. Last year, I think I counted five or six burrows, mostly around the shed. This year there's at least three times that many, probably more.

I had to mow the lawn yesterday. It's been three or four weeks. When it's been three or four weeks in a wet Virginia summer, lawns become feral. They are full of wild beasts and foul insects lurking under the man-sized vegetation. I geared up and set forth to reclaim my lawn with my electric implements. I failed to take into account the inquisitive nature of the non-stinging male wasp and was freaked the hell out when a few kept dive-bombing me and the lawn mower. After about an hour of enduring the wasps doing fly-bys and barrel rolls past my ears, I had to take a break.

I headed back out after refueling and continued my reign of terror on the land-bound insects while their air force wreaked havoc above. With the density of the jungle undergrowth, it took me some time to finish the mowing. At one point, I found that I had actually rolled over one of the wasps before it could get off the runway. It was floundering near a burrow. I didn't know whether it was a male of female, but I knew if it found its wings and was vindictive, then I might as well be a big round target. I put it out of its (and my) misery (Scott: 1.) After I finished clearing out all of the vegetation, I found a ridiculous number of wasp burrows. They were hard to count since some had burrowed near each other.

Finally, it was my turn to terrorize the giant wasps. I broke out the weed eater. Every time one would start zooming in my direction, I'd brandish my whirling plastic spline of doom. They'd generally take one or two angles of approach before breaking off the attack and retreating over the fence for a short time. I'm pretty sure I gave one a little insect heart attack. It just wouldn't stop zooming near me, so I mulched the air around it with the weed eater until it limped off. I didn't hit it, but it didn't look healthy afterwards (Scott: 1/2.) That'll learn ya ta invade my territory, !@#$% wasps!

By the time I was done, my nerves were shot. I headed in with my legs covered in green and brown, disintegrated weeds and dust. I found that Stacy had fought her own battle with the kids and was convalescing in bed, so I headed into the bathroom to wage another battle, this one on the dander, dirt, and stink encasing our dog.

But that's a story for another day.