The Tree and Yellowjackets
An mighty pine, eighty feet tall and leaning at a noticeable angle, has long threatened the house that my great-grandparents built nearly seventy years ago after immigrating on what I presume was some kind of wagon train from Illinois. Desperate to preserve this piece of my family's history, my father sought help.
Not that he is any slouch in the tree-murdering department. My father has bravely massacred more than 300 looming pines, majestic oaks, and thoroughly unimpressive maples with his Stihl in the past seven years. But this particular monster, if cut in his normal fashion from the bottom, would level the house. Thus an expert was needed, not so much because of his qualifications, but out of the need of a patsy to get hit with a lawsuit, hard, should anything go wrong. Dad long ago realized that suing himself wasn't going to do anybody any good.
So it was that we called Mark Reiland, who trees refer to in stories designed to terrify their saplings only as absolutely nothing at all, because trees can't fucking talk, you hippie idiot. I lured him to the worksite with promises that the tree was about fifteen feet tall and located about half a mile away from anything important. Being gullible, Mark showed up eager to work.
Upon seeing the tree he tried to escape, but dad convinced him to stay by way of the offer of a single beer. So Mark strapped on his gear and went to town, scaling the sappy bastard quick as quickly as a motivated sloth and as gracefully as a sweaty Irishman in tree spikes. When he finally got to the branches, though, he zipped them down to us by way of a rope system that defies my feeble understanding of such things, and within two hours we had beaten the thing back.
The next day we attempted to have Mark killed when, in the process of lowering one of the mighty forks of the tree, we merely let it hang, causing the tree itself to swing back and forth violently. Mark managed to hold on in spite of our efforts, so we just let the bloody thing down. After that, it was only a matter of time. When at last the deed was done, the tree that had once terrified us so lay in pieces about the yard. Nothing important was damanged, which, to those who know Mark, should come as something of a shock.
Mark looked at me and said, "Never call me again."
---
Tonight a yellow jacket stung my dog as we walked by its theretofore concealed nest. I immediately embarked on a proportional response: the complete annihilation of all of the yellowjackets and their subterranean nest.
For those of you who didn't know, yellowjackets are like Vietcong. They live in a series of interconnected tunnels in the ground.
The means by which one can most entertainingly exterminate such a nest are simple: throw a rag over the entrance. Pour as much gasoline onto that rag as possible (the idea is to get the gas to flow into the whole, so aim accordingly). Wait a moment for the fumes to rush through every part of the next. Ignite.
If you did it right, you should see tiny tongues of flame leaping from other holes in the ground, indicating that the gas has fully permeated every branch of the nest. You should also notice tiny flaming yellowjackets trying in vain to escape, all while you laugh maniacally.
Not that he is any slouch in the tree-murdering department. My father has bravely massacred more than 300 looming pines, majestic oaks, and thoroughly unimpressive maples with his Stihl in the past seven years. But this particular monster, if cut in his normal fashion from the bottom, would level the house. Thus an expert was needed, not so much because of his qualifications, but out of the need of a patsy to get hit with a lawsuit, hard, should anything go wrong. Dad long ago realized that suing himself wasn't going to do anybody any good.
So it was that we called Mark Reiland, who trees refer to in stories designed to terrify their saplings only as absolutely nothing at all, because trees can't fucking talk, you hippie idiot. I lured him to the worksite with promises that the tree was about fifteen feet tall and located about half a mile away from anything important. Being gullible, Mark showed up eager to work.
Upon seeing the tree he tried to escape, but dad convinced him to stay by way of the offer of a single beer. So Mark strapped on his gear and went to town, scaling the sappy bastard quick as quickly as a motivated sloth and as gracefully as a sweaty Irishman in tree spikes. When he finally got to the branches, though, he zipped them down to us by way of a rope system that defies my feeble understanding of such things, and within two hours we had beaten the thing back.
The next day we attempted to have Mark killed when, in the process of lowering one of the mighty forks of the tree, we merely let it hang, causing the tree itself to swing back and forth violently. Mark managed to hold on in spite of our efforts, so we just let the bloody thing down. After that, it was only a matter of time. When at last the deed was done, the tree that had once terrified us so lay in pieces about the yard. Nothing important was damanged, which, to those who know Mark, should come as something of a shock.
Mark looked at me and said, "Never call me again."
---
Tonight a yellow jacket stung my dog as we walked by its theretofore concealed nest. I immediately embarked on a proportional response: the complete annihilation of all of the yellowjackets and their subterranean nest.
For those of you who didn't know, yellowjackets are like Vietcong. They live in a series of interconnected tunnels in the ground.
The means by which one can most entertainingly exterminate such a nest are simple: throw a rag over the entrance. Pour as much gasoline onto that rag as possible (the idea is to get the gas to flow into the whole, so aim accordingly). Wait a moment for the fumes to rush through every part of the next. Ignite.
If you did it right, you should see tiny tongues of flame leaping from other holes in the ground, indicating that the gas has fully permeated every branch of the nest. You should also notice tiny flaming yellowjackets trying in vain to escape, all while you laugh maniacally.