Goodbye Ugly Rosebush

When we first moved into our house, there was this rosebush at the start of my sidewalk that leads from our driveway to the front of our house. The previous owners must have bought it at 90% off because it was the fugliest thing I had ever seen. The flowers on it were white with splashes of pink, but they almost looked like a freaky Jackson Pollock painting, however not as interesting. Every time I walked past that bush, my stomach turned. Now I am not much of a flower person, what with my black thumb that destroys most living things, but everyone agreed that it was an out of control eyesore and that I needed to do something about it.



A few months after we got settled in, I decided that I could no longer stand to look at the organic shitstain ruining the aesthetic of my home, so I set about removing it. I took a pair of giant gardening shears and started snipping away. Snip, snip, snip. It took me almost an hour, but I completely decimated the bush. De-fucking-stroyed it people. There was nothing left but a little nub in the ground that I meant to dig up but I never did.



Less than a month later, the bush started sprouting again. Huh? When I say I hacked that fucker to bits, that is exactly what I mean. I am good at destroying plants. I can do it with an ease that if bottled up could be used to destroy small planets and asteroids. Maybe even hemorrhoids. But up it sprang, mocking me with its very existence.



Then it started to get cold out, freezing cold. I figured that there was no way that the plant could survive a frigid Ohio winter since it was only about ten inches tall. I forgot all about the bush.



Until Spring came. And the snow melted. And the bush was there, yet again mocking me with its ugliness. Of course I am very lazy and I quite enjoy a battle of wits with a non-intelligent species (see any reference having to do with men and sex), so I ignored it. See if you win this war you insignificant plant! Hah! Your mockery will not do me in. You will not bend me to your will. I laugh at your petty attempts to incite my temper. (I was also too lazy to lug out the garden shears and hack away again.)



Summer came and went with its two months of warm weather and here I was again faced with the coming Fall. My days often ran into one another until one Saturday night I decided to go out and let loose. So the hubs and I get a sitter and we head out to a place where I used to tend bar. There we met up with a friend of mine who was celebrating his birthday and I helped him and a lot of other people celebrate. Many shots later, I was rip roaring drunk. So was my friend. So the hubs, being the only sane and sober one, drove my friend home. While still in the parking lot, I thanked my husband for allowing me to have such a good time by getting it on with him.... and possible the gear shift, but the memories are hazy at best.



About an hour later, we arrive home. As I am stumbling towards the house, I feel a rumbly in my tumbly. Uh oh. Maybe the 17 shots of Red Headed Slut mixed with a bottle of Grape Goose was not such the grand idea. I made it to the start of the sidewalk and was hideously sick. I remember hearing my husband saying something along the lines of "Oh my God ADW, you are going to hurt yourself and I don't feel like a trip to the hospital tonight." I didn't understand. Yes I was puking, but unless I have massive abs of lead, I am not going to hurt myself by doing so. Anyway, I finished cleaning out the digestive tract and he managed to get me into the house and up to bed.



The next morning I had a hangover from Hell. Little demons were doing an Irish Jig on the inside of my skull while keeping time with the pointy ends of their pitchforks. I took a shower a la the Crying Game (or Ace Ventura) complete with 20 minutes of dry heaving. I did not leave the house for the rest of the weekend.



By Monday, things were looking up and I managed to haul myself into work. Once I got home that evening and started up the walk, I realized what my husband was trying to tell me that night. Apparently, I puked in the rose bush. No, not ON the rose bush, but IN the rose bush. Whole head inserted into thorny branches until all that could be seen of me was my neck. How someone who is the world's biggest klutz managed to not only complete the act without serious damage, but ended up with nary a scratch on her is one of my greatest mysteries. So here I am, staring at this bush that is still covered in the residue of Jagermeister and premium vodka and I just start to laugh. I mean really. Priceless. And just another notch in the ADW stupid actions belt.



Two weeks later the rose bush was dead.



It never grew back.



So, the moral of this story is:



If you ever have a wayward plant that you want to get rid of, don't go buying any of them there fancy chemicals. No siree. Just get a tootful, let it swish around for a few hours and then expel it all over the plant. I have only tried it once, but I imagine that a large man could probably take down a small oak tree with the same process.



ADW