Friday, March 11, 2011
The apples are always falling from that blasted tree. No one eats the apples. We don't spray the tree and every apple has a worm. That tree is a worm hotel. Not a Motel 6, but more like a Howard Johnson or Best Western. You know, a real classy worm hotel joint with a mini kitchen and the non-pornographic worm Showtime channels.
Every fall I have to go out and pick up the gushy, disease-ridden apples off the ground and put them in a plastic bag. I feel badly because no Howard Johnson should go out like that; it's not fair, even for a two star Howard Johnson. I pick them up anyway. It's the kinda thing husbands that are still married do.
We've since built a little tree house in that apple tree. It has a slide and a steering wheel - the classic tree house paraphernalia. I was hoping the tree house would kill the apples, but they still grow. They grow and fall and grow and fall. It's a cyclical thing, almost like it is seasonal. I just don't get it.
Every fall I enact my revenge. I take that bag of glunky, worm-infested apples and I swing it above my head in a fit of rage. I then throw the worthless sack with all of my might at the trunk of the tree and yell, "HOW'D YOU LIKE THEM APPLES, PUNK?!"
*Cheeseboy creativity and energy levels have sunk to new lows. My apologies.