Sometimes you’re standing in your garden savagely beating weeds with a stick that used to be the handle of a rubber broom until you broke it last year using it to savagely beat some weeds and you suddenly realise, although you’ve known it for a while and just pretty successfully avoided thinking about it, that it’s been something like a year since you last posted anything on your website that you set up oh God how long ago right after walking out of your MA graduation ceremony, your website that was supposed to be some kind of diary or proving ground or practice arena or silent, expensive rebuke to your tendency to pretend it was fine and good to take the most elliptical possible path towards what you still for some reason don’t quite like to admit is your dream, something like a year or like 14 months and five days or whatever, it’s not like you keep count, and you think to yourself what, really, have you been doing with the time? Well, you’ve been savagely beating weeds, isn’t it. Which is no excuse. So let’s go.
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Weeds is why i live on the third floor.
But if you just avoid them, you’ll never know the joy of strimming. Never will you have a more intimate understanding of the word “swathe”.
Weed killer spray- the atom bomb of weed-whacking
The satisfaction’s in the mighty battle ‘twixt man and nature. Weedkiller’s cheating. Although tactical airstrikes are acceptable, because as Michael Bay has taught us, tactical airstrikes are way awesome.
I find an effective method to combat weeds is to hone in on their greatest insecurity, the fact that they exist eternally buried neck deep in muck, and point it out to them in an extremely insensitive fashion, like in front of their friends or at an intimate family gathering. Eventually the won’t be able to take it any longer and they’ll turn away from the sun in an act of obscure horticultural suicide.
Naturally I’d prefer to use that method, and stand at my bedroom window, half-shrouded in darkness, sherry in hand, watching them drop one by one, while a dead-eyed coke-addled Scandinavian model rubbed my shoulders and croaked monotone tributes to my virility. But that takes time, and I want it sorted by the weekend, so really induce blood-rage -> go at it with trowel and broom-handle is the only viable route. Don’t worry, the sherry is still heavily involved.
When time is a factor I have a go to solution for everything. Burn it all.This Scandinavian woman, where would you meet her? I want one too.
Nah mate, I did my time strimming when I worked in the hospital. I strimmed miles of path and road edges. Nah, fuck it, pave over the whole damn lot.
Or, I’m told, one can make homemade napalm with packing foam and petrol…
Did I tell you that?
I let the weeds be. Nothing wrong with weeds, trim them a bit now and then. Let them do their thing. Weeds are psychological creations. They’re just plants you’ve decided/been told you don’t like.
Well, indeed. On the other hand, five-foot thistles sitting right where I want to set up a barbecue is bad squishy.
Keep on it Colm, I don’t want to spend a day looking for doc leaves in a hungover state because I got stung. Eradicate everything potentially harmful to craic. You have my full support.
Possibly, Rab? I know we were talking about napalm last time I met you. Although I was originally taught this method by a school chum…
Egg whites, powdered sugar and lighter fluid mate.
We can test out different varieties on monday. Leave us a few weeds in a corner, Colm, yeah?
Like I said, bit of a trim.