Warning: This post is full of non-cussing cussing. But the intent is for it to be the worst cussing ever. So if you know as well as I do that you can say the word “matchstick” and mean it in a cussing way? Then maybe you’ll want to avoid this post.
Those mother-flipping grand-daddy grasshoppers are pissing me off. And the dung-button wasps do not understand they are not welcome here, either.
Omygosh!!! Grasshoppers are horrible, evil, cannibalistic (it is true – they eat the carcasses of their dead) pieces of muscular-mingy-frack-eyed-teetering-chutney-chewing crud-bums.
They seriously climb to the top of my beautiful heirloom tomato plant and eat their way down whole vines, like they finger-licking own the joint! At this stage and full-development, the only recourse is to actually catch the disgusting sons of buffalo-burgers and beat them senseless with a baseball bat.
Yesterday I sprayed one with wasp killer and it just kept going…4 wasp-kill soakings and it kept going. Finally it hopped and landed upside down in a spider web. Dave told me I should pull its’ jumping legs off, but I thought sure the web would hold it. Seconds later the little trundle-teeter flew past and yell “Sucker!”
I hate grasshoppers.
I have been in a summer long war on wasps, as you know.
I was winning until I left the week of Heaven Fest. Each day when I go out to water, they dart every which fleeting-flagging way and charge my head in anger while hosts of bees wave a friendly hello and keep right on doing good work in the garden.
But not the honking-twonk-monster-rowlocking-farcists wasps. Oh, no. They get all territorial in MY garden.
I currently water with the sprinkler wand in my left hand and a can of KILLER in my right. Taking down about a dozen a day. O yea.
A soft answer…
In other news, as I passed from the kitchen through the dining area, my late summer garden caught my eye and called out, “It really has been an OK, summer. Everything is going to be fine. Life goes on. Enjoy.”
That was a sweet thing to say.