Plums Will Be The Death Of Me And One Awkward Product To Make You Say "Wha??"

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.

*Sigh*

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.

J'accuse, Motherf**ker.

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.

Lovely.

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?
Wha??

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.

Me: Yeah...?

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. 

Every Fucking Day I Fucking Pick Up The Fucking Plums
or the devil is in the discards

Okay, so years ago we transformed the crap-heap that was our backyard into a much more palatable sanctuary, complete with retaining wall, lush vegetation and amazing deck. We replaced the downed trees with two exquisite red-hued flowering plums guaranteed not to bear fruit.

Neutered nature.

Works for us. A few years passed, they filled out nicely, blooming pink in the spring and casting a lovely shade in the summer. When it came time to stem the blistering heat in the front of the house, we jumped at the chance to replicate the beauty of the back in the front yard. It worked out so well in the back, why not, right? Only these specimens didn't get the no-fruit memo. These fuckers had their own agenda.

Oh, the first two years were perfect. Standing tall, being all pretty in pink and shit. Rich red leaves glistening attractively in the sunshine, casting a long, cooling shadow over our sweaty brow...

Beauty before the Beast

Then in the third year I noticed a small round orb dangling from a lower branch that look suspiciously like ... a plum!

WTF?!?! That's not supposed to happen. This has to be an anomaly. A one-time event. These trees are fixed, for Hell's sake. The next year there were a few more, and then a few more the following year. At this point the fruits weren't the fullest, but large enough to use in tarts, so, okay, kind of a win there.

Angry driveway face spewing plums

 But this year, Holy CRAP! Maybe it was the unusually long spring or the non-existent winter or the political attacks on women's vaginas, whatever, these mother fuckers are filled top to bottom with thousands of purple bullets to unload on the walkway, the driveway, the lawn, the car, the mailman. The worst part is the trees are such overachievers, there are far too many of the fruits, making them too small to use. They're basically a seed covered in skin whose sole reason to exist is to be a fucking nuisance. A task at which they excel greatly. They are EVERYFUCKINGWHERE!!

Good God! Make it stop!

They are my nemesis.

I can't walk across the lawn without feeling the sickening splat under my feet, staining my Clarks. And Dude, you never EVER mess with a girl's shoes.

the jagoffs, lurking

Of course I can't let them lay because their smooshed hulls will A) attract bees and B) the freed seeds will strike, fulfilling it's insatiable need to propagate all over the goddamn yard. So I spent most of the morning hunched over with my derriere in the air like one of those hideous wooden garden cut-outs of a flowery fat ass bent over.

seriously.
Not. Charming. At. All.

Note to the freaks who put this shit in their lawns under the false impression they're being whimsical... you're not. It's stupid and it makes me want to cover your "whimsy" in dog poop and set it ablaze on your front porch. Just a little FYI.

As I was cursing my aching hamstrings, I realized these trees are like gorgeous women. You swear you're not going to take anymore of their high-maintenance bullshit, but then Spring rolls around and they're all flirty and breathtakingly beautiful, washing away the memory of all the annoying crap they put you through last year, that is until the next time they piss you off by dropping copious amounts of shitz on your head.

Anywho, I no sooner finish filling a five gallon bucket with the devil's droppings, when that beyatch drops another load. Now she's just dicking with me.

Asshole.

I swear I heard her snicker.

Geo thinks my irrational obsession resolve to purge our property of these offending plums is ridiculous. He's all, "It's organic. Let it rot. It's good fertilizer." Which I know is code for "Stop freaking the hell out and get out of my face with your crazy. How about you get your ass inside and do something useful like make me some dinner, woman." And I'm all like, "Did you just pull the June Cleaver card on me?!? Tell me you did NOT just go there, because I got a bucket of GD plums you can organically shove somewhere special."

And then I set his hat on fire with my laser beam eyes superpower... causing more plums to rain down.

FR*@C#&%!!!!

I think I need a vacation.

*sigh*

So, this is my Sisyphean task. Every fucking day I fucking pick up the fucking plums.

Screw you, Nature. You may have won this round, but screw you.