Or, more specifically, in the shoes, the right one to be most accurate.  See, I wasn't feeling very well yesterday due to the fact that, as it turns out, I was bumrushed and mauled by a group of fire ants that had, apparently, decided to make camp outside of my van.  Why they had chosen to do so is beyond me, due to the fact that they were in the goddamn street and not a colony or hive, as you would genuinely believe ants to be.  I can only assume that these were rogue fire ants, cast out of their hippie communion by the queen, and thus, in their anger, decided to attack the closest thing to the area they had set up base.  This would, of course, happen to be me. 

Now, I generally consider myself a stoic, but I hope that you could find it in your hearts to forgive me for having screamed in terror when I realized my entire right foot was covered in fire ants once I got into my van.  They're just fire ants, sure, but when they're snacking on your foot, needless to say you're going to end up screaming like a bitch.  I dare you to say otherwise.

After freaking out for a minute, I was able to compose myself enough to get the damn things off me.  Still, I wouldn't act quickly enough, as my foot would still, for a time, appear to be a club foot due to the indignity brought upon me by those little bastards.  Despite the fact that I was in terrible, terrible pain and unable to go see The Nightmare before Christmas in 3-D with Brooks (what would've been my second time to see this reindition of it and Brooks' first to see the movie, period), I still had to go to work because, apparently, you can't have sick days if you're a part timer until you've worked their for about a year thanks to our new batshit absence/sick leave plan.  Thankfully, I was smart enough to go and get some medicine to reduce the pain so, you know, I wouldn't be stopping around with some horrible mishapened foot.

Damn vermin.  I hope they choke on their own bile.  And yes, by that I mean the fire ants, and not Wal-Mart.