In the '80s I loved The A-Team and any of their tat. As a war-obsessed tween the best was an awesome-as-shit plastic rifle that could be break apart into useful chunks like just the scope or as a pistol.
I did not own one. But my friend did and he lived on a piece of arid scrub.
He let me use it when we played war.
I lay down and gave a good old soak of sounds of fire—I don't recall if the rifle made a noise but mine was likely ner-herh-herh-herh-herh-herh—writhing astride a sandy rise home to a surprising fuck-ton of ants.
Ants on my hands and ants on my arms, bullants, those fucks.
Ants; accord them respect.
I told a friend about that and he said in the Army he was called ___ ants 'cos during a fire and movement he opened up with his real gun (fake bullets) whilst lying atop a fuck-ton of ants.
He got up, screaming "Fucking ants! Fucking ___ ants", pulling his clothes off.
If he got promoted then he'd be Corporal ___ ants.
Then I popped my head out and dusted them off.
Fucking ___ ants.