OK. OK. This is Whittier Communicator. The Communicator is communicating here. Listen up.
First, for the oblivious, there's a roll of twine, and baling wire too, nailed up on the back of the bulletin board. Its high up; rug-rats can't reach but you can. Wire nips are in the drawer. Good stuff! Use it for whatever.
Also new is a small hatchet --for stakes and such. The Communicator is tired of whittling with his vintage 1984 Buck-knife, bought in Willimantic Connecticut many moons ago (trivia: Willimantic, Indian for "land of swift running water" demarks NY mob from Providence mob. Bet you didn't know that) --Do The Communicator a favor, make sure it gets returned to the tool-bucket. DON'T let the garden kids (kinder-garten??) chase each other around with the thing. It's unseemly.
The Communicator is covertly reinforcing a few plot borders around the Great Circle. The Communicator is tired of muddy watering-wash sluicing down the sidewalks. The Communicator's hide severely chaffs at this. Try and not be watering slobs. It upsets The Communicator.
Another peeve is GOATHEADS. I realize this is a PERSONAL problem. If you don't know what one looks like, see The Communicator. I'll show you the ones in your plot. Fact of life --they are EVERYWHERE. But, The Communicator will have no truck with them. Nor will his anyone who loves The Communicator, all three of you. Each time a loathed goathead is yanked by The Communicator, an angel LOSES his (or her) wings. Do you want that on your hands? Didn't THINK so. Yank a goathead. For puppies and goodness. For crying out loud, dost thou not ride a bike? Dost thou not HATE goatheads??
The Communicator adores his fans. He knows he isn't always popular; The Communicator is even a little *stanky*; just ask The Communicator's squeeze. "Phew", she says. "Get some @#&!%!! deodorant. You smell like horse-hockey".
OK. The Communicator is reviewing this.
That is all for now. The Communicator wishes you happy gardening. Within reason.
Ok. Ok. That is all.
The Communicator loves y'all. Sorta like The Fakawi Tribe.
"Short Men in a tall prairie, jumping up and down, chanting "we're the fakawi, we're the fakawi!"
OK, The Communicator is gonna fold his laundry, and go to bed.
All filament, no bulb.
