At The (Old) Job today, the baby teacher, who is a young black woman, asked me to come into her room and kill a woss.
"A what?" I asked.
"A woss. It's on the Christmas tree," she said.
This did not elucidate anything. "You want me to kill a woss?" I asked, deliberately emphasizing the last sound.
"It's not, perhaps, a wasp?" I pressed on, popping the p.
"No," she answered, but a little confusion showed in her eyes as they searched mine.
With that clarification out of the way, I put fruity little scrunchy booties over my shoes and went in. (They keep the floor clean in the baby room.)
On the window, where a tiny paper Christmas tree was taped up, was indeed a wasp.
"Squish it," the teacher told me.
"I will, but it might sting my bare hand. I need something to squish it with."
The other teacher in the room offered me a latex glove.
"How exactly would that help?" I asked her, kindly not adding, "you idiot."
Anyway, I squished it with a wadded up tissue and flushed it down the toilet at the teacher's request, because she was afraid of its corpse being in the trash can. "I suppose it might sting after death," I said, "but are you really going to be rummaging around with your hand down in the trash?"
"Maybe," she said.
Well, that's the story of the woss.
Slow news day, I guess.