It was a dark and stormy night.
Leaf litter lay strewn across the deserted streets, waiting for the next gust of wind to send it into a swirling frenzy to its next destination. Our heroes trudged into sight, emerging from the invisible shadows of the park, onto the damp abandoned street, as a soft rain began to fall from the sky. The street grew damp, revealing the rainbowy streaks of oil left from cars long forgotten by their owners. As they walked, silent, wordlessly, they bathed in a warm orange glow; the sun filtering through the dark stormclouds hanging above their heads like fat, dirty sheep.
"Your shoes sound like clogs!"
"What?!"
"They sound just like clogs!"
"They do not!"
"Yes, they do! Not that there's anything wrong with that."
"No, they don't! I don't wear fucking clogs! They sound like fucking sandals."
Our heroes continued wordlessly to their destination, Casa Del Hanover. Silently, they signalled the advance party of one to the entrance. He darted, bravely, through the brush, narrowly avoiding his bloody downfall as he accurately swept from side to side, stealthily. It was a task he had achieved many times now, and his failures were long etched into his memory. He would not make such amatuer mistakes again, not with the dire consequences they presented. He reached the massive doorway, his dusty black coat camouflaging him well in the dark, and issued the password in his distinctive high pitch tone. There would be no mistakes, not tonight.
"Mreowwwww!"
*rustle rustle rip thump*
"Ow! Fucking cunt rose! OW! Guinness, get out of the way. C'mon, spazkitty, out of the way. Do you have the key?"
"Yes." She replied, weaving through the rose, and across the garden bed, taking the less dangerous route.
"Cool."
This is exactly what visiting our house is like. A dangerous task, fraught with fucking bastard attack roses and cute kittens. Seriously. When entering our front gate, you have two choices.
1) To go straight down the path, and dodge and weave the sprawling limbs of the rose, or;
2) walk across the garden bed in which I'm trying to grow plants, and dodge slightly less sprawling rose limbs.
The simple question that of course you're asking, and I'm just about to answer, is Why don't you just cut it back?
Because that would be fucking sensible, wouldn't it? One day, during my early days at Casa Del Rantolotl, I attempted to do just that. I was on my way out of the house on my bike, and wheeling the bike down the pathway while trying to swat spikey rose pits out of my way proved impossible. I'd had enough, I walked inside, and grabbed the closest knife. I determinedly walked back out to the front yard, bread knife in hand, and hacked off the most offensive limbs of the rose and wandered back in, victorious. What awaited my arrival, was an increasingly furious Vomit Girl, whose anger grew in direct proportion to my confusion. I thought I'd done a good thing... saved our skin, our clothing, and most importantly, our patience from the bastard attack plant that tried to look all innocent and flowery out the front. Turns out she's a staunch defender of the plant that everyone else in the world hates, and I was very quickly put in my place.
There have been other, more successful attempts to kill the beast, ones with far lesser repercussions that the first. These have been at the hands of housemates' visiting parents - the same ones who would bring us colossal amounts of toilet paper and dish scrubbing brushes, as if we weren't aware of the practise of wiping ones arse or cleaning ones dishes before blessed with their presence once removed (I now have a massive collection of toilet paper, and am counting how many rolls we must have in the bathroom before they stop buying more. So far, we're at 46 and counting.). They would comment about the rose one day, and I would carefully warn them that we have opposition in the house to such evil deeds as trimming the rose, and they would walk off, scoffing, and muttering words such as 'nonsense!' and 'don't be so silly!'.
I would of course return to find housemate a, b or c looking a bit shamefaced, and explaining the rose situation to me. Sometimes they'd even be pleading with their parents as they took the closest pair of scissors to the plant, enthusiastically. However, the result was almost always the same. One stump of a rosebush, many people secretly very pleased, and one fuming Vomit Girl, trying to maintain a veneer of pleasantness around said parent.
And it wasn't just us who were pleased when the bush was beaten into submission. I fondly recall neighbours complementing us on our efforts, and most notably, various take away delivery dudes who thanked us very much for cutting it back. It was those comments which impressed us the most - it was almost like they'd formed some sort of solidarity club with each other... the united victims of our rose bush. We were all pretty impressed that we ordered enough take out for that many people to be familiar with the bastard plant, too.
But the fucker always grew back, often with quite the vengeance. It's now at the worst it's been in some time. Yesterday, it captured my hat, right off the top of my fucking head as I tried to get to the door. This morning, it managed to put several holes in my hand, as I tried to clear it strand by strand from my path. It's put holes in shirts, and it keeps forcing people to walk across my lovely garden. The fucker must die.
After approaching Vomit Girl many times about said plant, and years of inaction on her part, I set up a petition. Sign it. Sign it well, sign it strong, and sign it often and save the starving children/my fucking arms & patience. Either or. I'm pretty sure Kipper & Krus will thank you for your efforts too.
Help a rantolotl out!
Leaf litter lay strewn across the deserted streets, waiting for the next gust of wind to send it into a swirling frenzy to its next destination. Our heroes trudged into sight, emerging from the invisible shadows of the park, onto the damp abandoned street, as a soft rain began to fall from the sky. The street grew damp, revealing the rainbowy streaks of oil left from cars long forgotten by their owners. As they walked, silent, wordlessly, they bathed in a warm orange glow; the sun filtering through the dark stormclouds hanging above their heads like fat, dirty sheep.
"Your shoes sound like clogs!"
"What?!"
"They sound just like clogs!"
"They do not!"
"Yes, they do! Not that there's anything wrong with that."
"No, they don't! I don't wear fucking clogs! They sound like fucking sandals."
Our heroes continued wordlessly to their destination, Casa Del Hanover. Silently, they signalled the advance party of one to the entrance. He darted, bravely, through the brush, narrowly avoiding his bloody downfall as he accurately swept from side to side, stealthily. It was a task he had achieved many times now, and his failures were long etched into his memory. He would not make such amatuer mistakes again, not with the dire consequences they presented. He reached the massive doorway, his dusty black coat camouflaging him well in the dark, and issued the password in his distinctive high pitch tone. There would be no mistakes, not tonight.
"Mreowwwww!"
*rustle rustle rip thump*
"Ow! Fucking cunt rose! OW! Guinness, get out of the way. C'mon, spazkitty, out of the way. Do you have the key?"
"Yes." She replied, weaving through the rose, and across the garden bed, taking the less dangerous route.
"Cool."
This is exactly what visiting our house is like. A dangerous task, fraught with fucking bastard attack roses and cute kittens. Seriously. When entering our front gate, you have two choices.
1) To go straight down the path, and dodge and weave the sprawling limbs of the rose, or;
2) walk across the garden bed in which I'm trying to grow plants, and dodge slightly less sprawling rose limbs.
The simple question that of course you're asking, and I'm just about to answer, is Why don't you just cut it back?
Because that would be fucking sensible, wouldn't it? One day, during my early days at Casa Del Rantolotl, I attempted to do just that. I was on my way out of the house on my bike, and wheeling the bike down the pathway while trying to swat spikey rose pits out of my way proved impossible. I'd had enough, I walked inside, and grabbed the closest knife. I determinedly walked back out to the front yard, bread knife in hand, and hacked off the most offensive limbs of the rose and wandered back in, victorious. What awaited my arrival, was an increasingly furious Vomit Girl, whose anger grew in direct proportion to my confusion. I thought I'd done a good thing... saved our skin, our clothing, and most importantly, our patience from the bastard attack plant that tried to look all innocent and flowery out the front. Turns out she's a staunch defender of the plant that everyone else in the world hates, and I was very quickly put in my place.
There have been other, more successful attempts to kill the beast, ones with far lesser repercussions that the first. These have been at the hands of housemates' visiting parents - the same ones who would bring us colossal amounts of toilet paper and dish scrubbing brushes, as if we weren't aware of the practise of wiping ones arse or cleaning ones dishes before blessed with their presence once removed (I now have a massive collection of toilet paper, and am counting how many rolls we must have in the bathroom before they stop buying more. So far, we're at 46 and counting.). They would comment about the rose one day, and I would carefully warn them that we have opposition in the house to such evil deeds as trimming the rose, and they would walk off, scoffing, and muttering words such as 'nonsense!' and 'don't be so silly!'.
I would of course return to find housemate a, b or c looking a bit shamefaced, and explaining the rose situation to me. Sometimes they'd even be pleading with their parents as they took the closest pair of scissors to the plant, enthusiastically. However, the result was almost always the same. One stump of a rosebush, many people secretly very pleased, and one fuming Vomit Girl, trying to maintain a veneer of pleasantness around said parent.
And it wasn't just us who were pleased when the bush was beaten into submission. I fondly recall neighbours complementing us on our efforts, and most notably, various take away delivery dudes who thanked us very much for cutting it back. It was those comments which impressed us the most - it was almost like they'd formed some sort of solidarity club with each other... the united victims of our rose bush. We were all pretty impressed that we ordered enough take out for that many people to be familiar with the bastard plant, too.
But the fucker always grew back, often with quite the vengeance. It's now at the worst it's been in some time. Yesterday, it captured my hat, right off the top of my fucking head as I tried to get to the door. This morning, it managed to put several holes in my hand, as I tried to clear it strand by strand from my path. It's put holes in shirts, and it keeps forcing people to walk across my lovely garden. The fucker must die.
After approaching Vomit Girl many times about said plant, and years of inaction on her part, I set up a petition. Sign it. Sign it well, sign it strong, and sign it often and save the starving children/my fucking arms & patience. Either or. I'm pretty sure Kipper & Krus will thank you for your efforts too.
Help a rantolotl out!
http://www.petitiononline.com/rant0331/petition.html
7 comments:
It's not "take away" if you get it delivered. :D
Terry and Victoria commented about the rosebush at the bbq last week with reference to the safety of their child.
I will know who you are if you sign this scandalous document. I will know, I will track you down, I may cause you extreme discomfort...you have been warned...
I personally like the rose bush. I don't however like the fucking size of it. It needs to be either pruned back or tied back. And then napalmed.
It was a valiant attempt with the gaffa tape.
Surely there are rogue Gardeners out there, green-thumbs of the underworld, who would make this all go away quickly and quietly for a few bags of unmarked fertilizer?
I signed it. YOu can do what oyu like Oh cat faced one, but you shuld know, as i do, that pruning our roses is actualy good for em
rantin how has a pair of secitures adn is nto affraid to use em an
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