“What are we going to do?” my wife asked.

“We?” I said. ” You’re on your own. I’m moving to Canada.”

“Sweetie, come down from the refrigerator and get the garden hoe like a real, strapping man.”

Listen here, I’m a strapping man. As a matter of fact, I go strapping all the time. Sometimes, twice a day. But no amount of strapping can make me like snakes. I hate them so much I can’t even finish reading this. I’m sorry, you’ll just have to keep going without me.

The Associated Press reported that snakes are “taking over” the South. Those are the exact words from the article: “taking over.” As opposed to, say, “migrating South,” or, “building summer cottages in Orange Beach.”

Last year, local governments deputized six hundred snake-hunters to handle the crisis. But don’t get your hopes up. After a year of snake killing in Alabama, Georgia, and Florida, hunters only managed to kill a mere sixty-one.

Well shrimp my grits.

I don’t mean to complain, but I can kill at least seventy cottonmouths just backing out of my driveway. What’s going on here? I’m no statistician, but can’t six hundred men with shotguns kill at least enough snakes to fill a shoebox? I don’t want to blow this out of proportion, but this is the most serious crisis facing North America.

I wish I were kidding, but I’m as serious as a milkshake. Pardon my math, but Ophiologists predict migrating snakes will blanket twenty-four thirds of Alabama and Florida within the next ten minutes. We’re talking thirty-three-foot pythons that strangle Teddy bears just for kicks. Some of these things tip the scales at two hundred pounds and have names like, Albert, or Justin.

As it turns out, Albert is a lot faster than your wife is with her garden hoe.

Or your mother-in-law.

Or your aunt, Flossie.