oh, that little man in my garden!

I gave the little man in my garden an old Discman and lent him the Dresden Dolls; she sang uh-uh, oh but he disapproved.

“An I be a wee fellow, ya blunderin' tosser, but 'eh, she wails like an banshee! Sure 'nuff.”

Well, I was just trying to make amends for last spring when Toby nosed him up a bit and got his blood roiling. And I told him so. “Please, go easy on the weeds—my old back isn't up to it.” The little man had pulled weeds out of his sleeve that hadn't seen the light of day for a century. Not that that kept the little blighters from claiming every spare centimeter of vacant soil. Last summer I had weeds on top of noxious weeds. I had weeds I swear had feet. I had weeds the like of which chewed my grand-pappy's tobacco and were propagated by the Guinness Book of World Records' long spit! I'll not forget those weeds any season soon.

The little man was out earlier than usual this year, what with the record temps, and he and the William Mulberry tree were forgoing the usual mumbletypeg ritual for a game of toss the catkin. You see, the corkscrew hazelnut is going on a couple years in the dirt, and this year has sprouted the most delightful and fluffiest of dangle firs, like soft little caterpillars, or miniature mink stoles. Apparently Willy covets them; his drooping branches don't seem to flower or seed—not that I've noticed.

“Ah Willy, yer nigkneed flop-ter-sop! Ye's ugly as my baboon's ass; nekid and droopy! Gads—put on some clothes, prevert!”

Will just shrugs and harrumphs a bit, straining to pop out some meager spring foliage betwixt naps.

What's the hurry, summer comes soon enough when the leaves will fill in the empty spaces and hide the bones. Until then a couple or more catkins decorate his lower bits.
I just transplanted a small fir shrub into a fresh location, as its old residence will soon be sporting a new junk habitat, but I have my doubts that it will survive the move. The little man was there as usual to help. “No, you fat bloated ferny goat head! O'er here, now o'er there—k-niggits, you arr one for da astronauts, you blitherin' pie dome! Now lookee, poor lil chap is bummed, no way 'es coming out the other side, now! Foo.”

Sorry, it was either move the fir or get trampled by the installers; “heads it grows, tails it's for the fire pit.”

Oops, did I say that out loud?

“Farg, that's a fine ting ta utter, ya loose twit! Now 'es a cryin', naugh! It's the weed for ya, ya hairy kneed scrum scrubber! Go now and say yer deh sorry!”
Ugh. Not that apologizing will help any; more weeds. Great—I can feel my back tighten up already!