Here is the garden I sowed yesterday in the sunlight. See the arable soil, the neat row markers? Oh, wait, that’s right; you can hardly make it out through ALL THAT EFFING SNOW. I know, Old Man, why don’t you throw a fresh inch our way? We haven’t had nearly enough white stuff in the last SIX MONTHS.
I’ve got a real bone to pick. You’ve been laying it on pretty thick, and now this heavy-handed mockery of spring is enough to make me throw down. I’m this close to igniting everybody’s woolly underpinnings.