Last night, I spared an ant.

It was one of those ubiquitous black kitchen ants, somehow separated from its detachment like a lone T.I.E. Fighter leagues and leagues away from the Death Star. It was crawling in my bathroom sink, and instead of mashing it, poaching it with the faucet turned all the way to hot, or drowning it with a mouthful of toothpaste (all of which I have done with glee in the past), I allowed it to live.

Let's be clear. I hate ants. They are one of the few species on this planet that I would genuinely like to see go extinct. I can't begin to estimate the number of times I have left a dinner plate out for even a couple of hours, and returned to find it and my countertop in a state resembling a TV set tuned to a non-broadcasting channel. They come in force from any breach in the house's hull, no matter how slight. They set up infiltration camps in houseplants and cupboards. They march in wide, brazen phalanxes across the kitchen floor to pillage the garbage can. They mass in huge numbers somewhere under the house, fear neither man nor God, and have no regard for those they torment.

I call them "Little F**kers."

My son, on the other hand, calls them "Little Guys." In truth, he's kind of ambivalent about them; when he notices one crawling on his possessions or person, he gets very distressed. "Oooh, there's a little guy on there!" he'll exclaim, dancing frantically from foot to foot and pointing, waiting for my wife or me to come and "please flip him off!"

He also, however, frequently asserts that a lone enemy scout, caught on a reconnaisance mission to the coffee table or pantry, is "just walking about" or, more often, "looking for his family." "He's funny, Papa!"

See, when it comes to ants, my son epitomizes the kind of Wasp-ish liberal sensibilities described by Jello Biafra and Mojo Nixon - "I love gays and blacks and latinos; as long as they don't move next door." He finds them quaint, cute, and amusing, but doesn't really want them to touch him or his stuff. I, on the other hand, am Lyndon Johnson, Jesse Helms, and the Georges Bush all rolled into one. Kill them all. They're the Axis of Evil. Somebody hand me a can of RAID and a Nuke.

So yesterday, when I was helping him wash his hands in the bathroom sink, he saw a "little guy" on the edge of the basin. "There's a little guy! He's washing his hands!!" he exclaimed, grinning and laughing. "He's so so funny!"

My son, the seditionist, the enemy sympathizer.

So later that night, when I had one of the dirty little guerillas right in my sights, I was moved to mercy. This could be a fatal break. Maybe it's the turning point where the ants finally gain the upper hand, attacking me through the soft heart of my son.

I feel I should say that I didn't actually help the ant out of the sink, thereby aiding the enemy. Instead, I left him (or more likely "her", given the organization of ant colonies) to her own devices. Maybe she got out, maybe she didn't. It doesn't matter - there are so many, many others where she came from, and they are relentless and without remorse.

Little F**kers.