Red harvester ants make crop circles that are, I kid you not, 6 or 8 or 1097 feet in diameter. They build’em right there in the middle of whatever lush little patch of prairie grass you happen to be strolling through, usually on the day you neglected to wear your anti-ant aunt boots. Not only do red harvester ants denude vast acreages, they construct gravel highways leading in and out of the crop circles that stretch for miles and miles (when you adjust for the size of the ant). In the exact center of the circle the ants put a hole, which is used to stage demonstrations of their much-admired work ethic. These demonstrations consist of swarming industriously in and out of the hole.
This so-called work ethic is not admired by me, I should clarify. A spinster aunt could no more swarm industriously in and out of holes than she could get a Bettie Page haircut, change her name to Cherry Smore, and write a book called A Christian Woman’s Right to Labiaplasty. One can only imagine the strain of all that tireless bustling. Ants are so workally ethical there doesn’t seem to be an ant equivalent of lounging indolently on a patio with a pitcher of margs. If I were a lot tinier, I’d counsel those ants to take a load off once in a while. Although the fundamentalist ant conservatives would probably run me out of the mound on a rail, and post rude pictures of me on the anternet, with my head photoshopped onto a grasshopper’s body or something.
The harvester ant’s selfless, resolute, Aesopian diligence and flawless attendance record is admired by some outside the slothful spinster bum community. Busyworkists, Methodists, corporate middle-management dudes, and anti-margites, to name a few. Take, for example, my mother. A busyworkist, a Methodist, and an anti-margite, she could no more lounge indolently on a patio than she could give up pursing her lips and passive-aggressively disapproving of everything her offspring does.