At the fervent request of the youngest gingerbread boy, you make your semi-annual foray into the jungle that poses as your garden, bearing no fewer than three different types of clippers.
Clover, black-eyed Susans, and lily-of-the valley compete for real estate under forsythia, snowball bush, lilac, and some kind of thorny thing.
But over, around, above, through, and under is The Beast. Once upon a time, some past homeowner thought it was a good idea to plant The Beast, a leafy green thing that sends out runners and tendrils and grows at an astronomical pace. Turn your back, and the thing will have a death grip around your neck.
You do battle with it twice a year, cutting, hacking, ripping until it appears submissive.
It never is.
Before you know it, The Beast is back in full force, threatening your patio, your bench, the grill, the ENTIRE BACKYARD.
So you pull out your clippers and do battle.
It's starting to get the better of you. You bring the cuttings down to the compost pile, and realize you'd never make a good farmer, gentleman farmer or otherwise. You always kill the wrong stuff.