Coniferous Rage

Oh hi there Enormous Tree In My Yard, don’t mind me. I’m just standing here. This giant beaker I’m holding with tongs? Don’t worry about it. It’s just an imaginary container of hydrochloric acid. The giant arm length gloves I’m wearing are imaginary too (safety first!). I wouldn’t really dump this toxic shit on your roots. But if you don’t mind, I’ll just continue imagining that I would…that I am…that I did. Sorry Enormous Tree in My Yard, you are lovely really. But you are spewing little sticky things all over the place. It was OK when they were all over the yard. By the time they spread to the driveway thoughts of a severe pruning with a dull and rusty blade crept to mind. Then they started sticking to the bottom of my shoes. Perhaps you would enjoy a quick dip in the wood chipper? Then my dog showed up looking like some Muppet version of a conifer. Perhaps you would like to get intimate with my chainsaw? Your little sticky growth spawn is now all over my house. Stuck to the couch, in my bed, in my shower, clogging up my dryer lint screen, just generally taunting my every effort at cleanliness…I suspect you are trying to suffocate me. Don’t think you can hide behind your christmasy good looks, your snow draped appearance of months past means nothing to me. I know you’re up to some no good growth spurt but I’m going to continue my imaginary logging competition training (that’s right, look how fast my giant buck saw is slicing you!) until you quit dropping those fucking sticky ass tree shits.