Wasp, it's come to this.
I'm standing, hockey stick in hand, in my front doorway under your growing nest.
I'm about to tee off like Webb Simpson — Simpson, eh? — and send your little home into orbit.
I'd be OK with letting you squat on my eave if we didn't have a history.
Remember, a few weeks ago when you entered my home and made me look like an ass (which isn't hard to do)?
I chased you around for an hour, unsuccessfully trying to strike you with a roll of paper towels.
"Scared of it?" taunted my wife, who wasn't exactly jumping over furniture to help get you herself.
And, Wasp, you try explaining to a two-year-old why his father is jumping on the couch like Tom Cruise, batting at an insect, and muttering strange words under his breath.
"Why does Daddy keep saying that word that rhymes with duck?" he must have been asking. "And how come he's allowed to jump on the couch, but I'm not?"
I didn't get you then, Wasp, but I did vow to get even, a score I'm about to settle with a hockey stick that hasn't scored enough.
You may not know it, but our history goes well beyond that recent couch-jumping incident.
Since we moved into our house eight years ago, a clan war has been raging, the Bartletts versus the Wasps.
A couple of your ant-cestors have even struck my wife and, Wasp, you must realize hell hath no fury like a woman stung.
Who do you think she blamed? Not you jeezly wasps, but me, for allowing you to nest on the house.
That's another reason why your little ball of horror has to go ASAP.
If my wife gets stung again, it'll be the third time, and three strikes likely means I'm out ... sleeping in the car or under the picnic table.
And if you or one of your kind stings our son ... I'll banish myself from the house and go into hiding, because hell hath no fury like a grandparent whose grandchild is stung.
My plan, Wasp, is to flick your nest off the eave, jump back in the house, and slam the door before you know what happened.
I don't mind sharing my strategy with you, because it's dusk and you're inside the nest at this time of the day.
That's means there's little you'll do before I launch my attack.
OK, enough of the pleasantries, let's get 'er done.
Wasp, the stick is over my head and the blade is a few centimetres away from your nest.
I shoot ... snapping my wrists like Wendel Clark, who had the greatest wrist shot of all time (and is the greatest player ever).
I score ... your nest flies through the air and breaks into pulpy pieces.
But there is no time for jubilation. A squadron of your upset friends are top gunning for me.
I slam the door. None of them get in, which is excellent because I don't have the time or paper towels to waste tonight.
Now, Wasp, buzz off.
Steve Bartlett wants to hear tales from other wasp warriors. Reach him via firstname.lastname@example.org or tweet him at @SteveBartlett_