War of the Weeds

Alas, night has fallen, and I have lost visual of the enemy. It has been a battle of epic proportions---and it has just begun . . .

It all started when I got home from a long day of drug-dealing (aka clerking at the pharmacy). I thought I would saunter down to the garden to check on the red raspberry patch. So I gleefully grabbed a glass bowl from the kitchen and was down to the garden in no time, gleening from it God-sent goodness in the form of little, sweet, red balls. After picking all of the raspberries that were ready, I found, to my delight, that a handful of blueberries were ripe for the picking as well. I was strolling back up the lawn in my bare-footed state of euphoria when a bull thistle made a surprise attack on my heel. Luckily, there were no casualties (including the precious contents of the glass bowl), but needless to say, I was quite disturbed at this un-called-for offense. No . . . upset is putting it lightly---I was ticked. So I took immediate action. I raced up to the HQ (aka kitchen) and made certain of the safe arrival of the berry bowl to the dinner table, and selflessly threw myself out into the fray, with a gardening tool (I don't know what it's called, a long metal stick-thingy with a prong on the end) as my only protection. At first, I strategically set a plan of action to make my way along the front line (aka the driveway) and take them out, every one of them, no matter how big or small, and kill them slowly and deliberately---making them pay for their evil allegience. And this worked . . . until several hours later when I looked up from my planned course and was overcome by the immensity of their numbers. That's when I made a crucial decision and ditched my quixotic thoughts of conquering the entire force, but now began frantically picking off the big guys, for the red sun was sinking fast and I figured that the combination of the fall of darkness with the loss of their leaders might throw them into confusion---at least for a while, time enough to nurture my war wounds (aka blisters) and prepare for my next attack. But even while I lay in bed tonight, hoping for sleep to find me . . . I know that the weeds are waiting . . .