gopher

If “to plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow,” well, then I’m f*cked.

This was going to be the summer.

I was going to have a garden to rival all gardens.

I was going to  basically live off the land.

I was going to produce so much shit from my garden I’d be able to have my own roadside stand. Or maybe even a booth at the farmer’s market.

I was going to can shit and pickle shit and be so overwhelmed by the fruits of my bountiful garden that I’d be giving people gifts of my incredible, organic harvest all the way through October.

Then the fucking woodchucks came.

Like a family of twelve of them.

No joke.

But I’d show them.

I’d make container gardens and have patio plants and outsmart those little fuckers.

And now that we are nearing the end of the summer, now that it’s time to really reap the harvest, I just wanted to show you how badly I kicked those little gophers’ asses.

Prepare yourself.

You’re gonna be blown away.

Wait for it…

Wait for it….

Wait.

For.

It….

Boom!

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I know.

You’re totally jealous, aren’t you?

Two tomatoes. And that one in the dirt was already picked by Number 7.

So I may manage to harvest one miniscule tomato in 2016.

Fuck you, gophers.

This year you may have won.

But next year, it’s on.

And “In the immortal words of Jean Paul Sartre, Au revoir, gopher.”

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