Our yard is ruled by rival gangs of vicious weeds.
When you acquire a house with a yard that looks like it’s had as much grooming over the past 40-ish years as Weird Al Yankovic, you start spending a lot of time sweating through garden gloves, double-fisting pruning shears, and loading your kill onto a little red wagon.
Hopefully it’s fun for our neighbors to listen to me swear like a sailor, because when you’re pulling roots part-time, you have to let the weeds know who their mama iz.
There are four particularly diabolical invasive species that wrap their tendrils around every native plant and suck all joie de vivre out of our soil. Let me introduce you to them so that if you drive past the house on an overcast day, you’ll know the lingo.
I apologize in advance for the swearing. I blame it all on the plants. Though I suspect my friend Steph will be quite proud.
Holly, aka: You Have GOT to be F*CKing Kidding Me
You sprout in fully formed trees with roots a foot deep. You’ve GOT to be f*cking kidding me, Holly! Why are you so evil?? And I like your little hiding places underneath shrubs and bushes, in dark corners.
Just because I haven’t found you yet doesn’t mean I won’t find you. I will. And I’m bringing a pick-axe. Also, did you see what happened to your king and queen? Those two-story tall holly trees in the backyard? The ones that our neighbor’s chihuahua hated? They got LEVELED with a chainsaw. That’s right. Don’t f*cking kid with me, Holly!
English Ivy, aka: Satan’s Hairball
How is it possible for a plant to actually take apart concrete? And you choke trees, sneak under garage doors, and decimate innocent patches of periwinkle. Seriously. How can you look at yourself in the morning, Ivy? You’re so evil, I had to get Mormon missionaries involved. The elders and I ripped you apart. We basically performed a yard exorcism. But I know you’ll be back. You’re just waiting for a sunny day, or the apocalypse. Damn you, hairball of Satan!
Mystery Thorny Vine, AKA: What the eff?
What the f*ck? What are you?! How did you get here? Oh, the birds pooped you out. Yeah. Stop that!
Blackberry, AKA: Nasty-Ass Mother F*cker
I respect you, blackberries. I respect you enough to go straight to the pick-axe. Do you think I forgot about my shovel? I will never forget!! That sad sucker couldn’t even dig its own grave.
Also, I’m tired of your purple spikes stabbing my hands into a bloody pulp: Can we say House of Stark at the Red Wedding? Yeah, we’re not doing that anymore. I’m wearing rubber gardening gloves AND leather work gloves. Did I mention the pick-axe?
Friends, if you are ever having a day full of bitterness or vile anger, please come over and have at-it against the noxious weeds. It’s really satisfying to beat them into a lifeless pulp. Most things in life are not black and white–they’re grey. Everyone has goodness inside them. Not these weeds. These mother-f*ckers have to go.