I’ve heard the word “maggots” used quite often in my career—usually directed toward members of the media as we surround a ballplayer’s locker (As in, “Will you maggots please find a new way to make a living.”).

Today, however, I gained a new appreciation for maggots.

Last week, as the wife, kids and I spent a week’s vacation on Cape Cod (big ups to the Brewster General Store), I accidentally left sitting halfway up the driveway a garbage pail filled with diapers, dog-crap and assorted food remains. This morning, upon opening the pail, I was greeted by, oh, 1,000 maggots, all climbing their way up, down, under and through the remains. To say I was repulsed is to delve into great understatement.

So, with humanity on the brink of disaster, I did as only a kid from the rough streets of Mahopac can do: I went gangsta.

Without flinching, I whipped out a garden hose, flipped the lid on the can and did a little old-school Dre on those punks. With a powerful cannon of water bursting from the nozzle, maggots flew everywhere, drowning in an ocean of suburban angst. “F— all y’all!” I screamed. “This is my house! My motherf—ing house!”

Then, when the sea parted, I returned inside, washed my hands and continued with my granola cereal, blueberries pushed to the side.

You don’t f— with the chief. You just don’t.

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