The First Vine War

I felt obliged to endeavor to the lifestyle of American meat. I wished to host a garden barbecue as a peace offering to the neighbors I had offended by killing a lawn and a hedge. But there would be no barbecue in my Garden of Eden unless I annihilated the serpent vines that had had not only throttled the neighbor's fence to death costing me several hundred dollars in repairs but spread across the ground of my property, ruining the possibility of my pursuit of happiness, the elemental core of the American Dream. I showed up to clear the vines with the Tesla version of a weed whacker that I had purchased from the hardware store people up to their necks in screws, paints, sprinkler systems, plumbing washers, hoses, grease cleaners, power saws and aromatic candles designed to repel flying insects. The vines in my yard were stranglers. They had even murdered the weeds. A warped and curled mass loaded with barbs that were ready to repel any attack on their imperialist instinct. I had to gear myself up to attack the enemy, to imagine them in a most negative light like a propaganda war campaign poster that would portray them as wicked and evil. I couldn't see the vines as terrorists or invaders as many right-wing Americans would likely have done. I hated those right-wing bastards. So, I saw the vines as British imperialists who were trying to build their empire again and me being a Jock from Glasgow, I had no problem with this. I found a little Union Jack flag, one that you would put on top of Nigel Farage's birthday cake, and planted it into the vanguard of the vines. These vines had roots deeper than the pockets of a gang attending a stoning. What was a vine? They had names like Creeping Jenny and Creeping Fig. One was called Morning Glory and this prompted me in my preparation for the First Vine War to load up the Oasis' album, Morning Glory, on the playlist for my headphones. I would enter the battle while listening to the whine which rhymes with vine, for those of you paying attention to couplets, this whine being the whine of the legend, Liam Gallagher, Oasis frontman from the fertile crescent of Manchester, England. Liam's pose while singing at the microphone resembled a dead tree dressed in a parka, a contorted rooted marvel. Once, I had achieved victory in the Vine War, I would plant a leafless tree as a memorial to conquest and name it Liam's Eden.

The fight commenced. As I whacked, the vines fired their sharp thorns at my feet wounding the ankles and causing maximum itch, following on with their vicious counterattack on the whacker itself, strangling the slicing twine, which also rhymes with vine, causing the motor to whine and burst into smoke. Dead. Killed by The Vines after ten minutes of horticultural warfare. So much for the Tesla of fucking weed whackers. I would have to go full on for the weed whacker that ran on petroleum, not a Lithium battery with a sensitive trigger, a sort of big Ford Tundra pickup type of thing that daft Americans drove to the parking lot of the Apocalypse which let's face it was nigh. Defeated, I opened a bottle of wine from a vine being time for the pinot of poetry. to be continued...