Okay, so some (i.e. two) of you have read my travails regarding our supposed neutered plum trees which have been pumped full of steroids and estrogen to become the hideous overachieving fruit bearing fuckers of the forest and my Sisyphean task to rid my world of their sloppy mess.
Anywho, the carnage has increased exponentially with my ire, hatred, loathing over this current hyper-extended growing season thanks to the ginormous hole in the ozone from our blonde twinkie anchorwoman (yes, that chick) who insists on using three cans of hairspray a minute to freeze dry her crunchy mop.
Can you tell she was on my last, frayed nerve before her blessed vacation? I exploded her pinhead with my mind no fewer than 28 times. There will be blood, chippie. Someday, There. Will. Be. Blood.
But I digress...
|purple haze fills our garden project|
if these fuckers strike, i'll kill myself with mojitos
Now that the season is full-on, these purple orbs are fuller than ever. Dropping with a juicy SPLAT, staining every inch of our sidewalk and driveway. We seriously need hardhats to walk through the yard. To add the fun, now there are bees.
|my Sisyphean back is stained as red|
as this walkway
The limbs are so heavy with fruit, that even the slightest of birds alighting atop a branch will cause a cavalcade of plums to go with gravity.
|Red Menace Bastards|
(my new punk band name)
You win, Nature. I give up. UNCLE, asshole.
So I picked a boat load of those bastards, stained my fingers violet pitting them and baked one of the best crisp desserts EVA!
|from one branch of low-hanging fruit|
|baked devil droppings is delectable, yo|
So now I'm begging every unsuspecting bipedal being walking past the house to pick the trees clean. BEGGING. It's not a pretty sight. Tears, clutching strangers' collars, wild-eyes locking on theirs like a feral beast. I don't know why people are crossing the street before reaching our house.
Now for something completely random. Things that make you go, WTF?
So Geo is one of the most thoughtful men I've ever known. (And tolerant, but you all know that already.) Case in point, I carried a beautiful bouquet of calla lilies on our wedding day. Now when he sees something pertaining to callas, he buys it for me. He's very sweet that way. He's found a lot of beautiful calla-related gifts throughout the years.
Callas are gorgeous, but sometimes they don't translate well in certain forms. Sometimes they are downright awkward.
Are you ready for this? You tell me what you think this is.
|a mobile pitstop?|
Me: You bought me a female urinal??
Geo: NO! It's a funnel.
Me: Dude. It totally looks like a urinal. A poorly designed urinal being that it has a HOLE at the bottom, but still... URINAL.
Geo: But it's a calla.
Geo: You like callas.
Me: But it's a rubbery URINAL. Whenever I use it, I'll want to pee.
Geo: But, but it's a CALLA.
(I think that's the largest use of the word "urinal" that I ever EVER want to see in print)
I can see the pasty-faced, pimply, four-eyed geeks giggling while they were designing this apparatus. Oh, I'm keeping this epic fail just so I can broadcast to Geo that I'm using the girlie urinal to funnel limoncello.
Or maybe not.