Ken, the nature lover, makes an exception for the mole in his front yard

Hate is such a strong word. I usually reserve the emotion for things with no redeeming value, such as beets, liver, oysters, or green bean casserole. But after two gin-and-tonics, my literary inhibitions are weak. My “give a sh*t” is broken. Waterboard me, I don’t care. I am officially adding moles to my list.

I hate moles, or at least the mole in my front lawn. To paraphrase the recent insult of President Trump by the freshman representative from Michigan, I would “kill the mother (you-know-what)” if I could catch him. But I can’t.

And lest you think that I am exaggerating, I have 58 mole hills in my smallish front yard. Quite literally, I could make a mountain out of the mole hills. The bastard must be on drugs. I have tried every home remedy, wives’ tale, and even professional advice — and none work. I used to take pride in my lawn. Now, it’s an embarrassment.

I had renewed hope, briefly, when I pulled up an on-line article entitled, “How to get rid of moles,” and I read that moles can be eradicated by applying baking soda, castor oil, or apple cider vinegar directly to the mole for four hours. Holy cow, I thought, naively — Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, and now a fail-safe remedy for moles. Life is good. How did I miss this in my earlier Google search?

But then I thought, “Why would I do that?” If I could catch the son-of-a-bitch to apply any of these caustic substances, why wouldn’t I just slap the bastard silly and say “Read my lips: No new hills”? Curiosity caused me to read further: “Moles occur when cells in the skin grow in a cluster instead of being spread throughout the skin.” Damn. I just knew it was too good to be true!

So, I am officially an emotionally crushed, beaten man, and I am farming out the challenge to all comers. Is there a bored or retired whack-a-mole champion out there who wants off the couch? Where is Steve McQueen or Dog, the ultimate bounty hunters, when I need them?

All applicants are welcome. Name your price. The keys to my kingdom are yours. But hurry. Mating season occurs between February and April. The only thing worse than one mole is two moles. (And green bean casserole, of course, which is visually too close to cow’s cud for my brain to handle. But I digress as usual.)

Back to my mole, the one in my lawn — I don’t know what kind of mole he is. Just catch him before he has sex again and sets up a permanent home for his new family. As it is, he was taking deliveries from UPS over the holidays and there were empty Domino’s Pizza boxes and Yeager’s Sporting Goods’ worm containers everywhere. The man can eat.

Plus, I swear that he is stealing the signal from my Dish Network and he sits down there — resting between mole hill duties — in his Lazy Mole recliner while watching re-runs of “Journey to the Center of the Earth.” It’s like mole porn to him. You just know that when he is done watching, he is ready for Mrs. Mole, or in need of mole skin. Even the vibration device that I stuck in the ground to deter him is probably counterproductive, the pervert.

If I sound desperate, I am. These thoughts drive me crazy. It’s either me or him. One of us needs to go — and since I pay the mortgage, only my vote counts. Bribe him, if you need to, with promises of headlamps, manicures for life, and free dental work (front two upper teeth only). He must have a weak spot. Find it, and bring him to me!

And for the purist animal lovers out there, I promise to spare his life despite the unused apple cider vinegar in my pantry. My plan to build a very small, mole-sized swimming pool with a “Moles Welcome” sign was just a joke. That would be cruel. I know moles can’t swim and I am not yet on my third gin-and-tonic. Besides, death by drowning in vinegar would be a waste of an opportunity for revenge.

No, I have something more sinister planned. A few months back, Loretta was garbage shamed by a deeply disturbed, obsessive-compulsive neighbor, if you recall Loretta’s tongue-in-cheek column. My mole will need a new home and a proper name. I know just the yard and the proper name. Paybacks aren’t always a bitch, Patti. Sometimes paybacks can be a bastard mole affectionately named after your amazingly understanding husband, Mike.

Geico and your camel, step aside, please. Mike, Mike, Mike, what day is it? Well, let me tell you. It’s mole hill day at the Lulus!!

To read past Final Words, click here.

"'Read my lips: No new hills.'"