It was the Scotsman, in the yard, with a spray gun.

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That's the clue you'll need if I should mysteriously turn up missing sometime this weekend.

It went down like this, gumshoes. Earlier today Great Scot was trying to slip out the door to go buy his annual fix of pre-emergent supercarcinogenic death juice with which he likes to douse the dirt-with-grass-comb-overs outside that we call our lawn.

But then our cats started brawling and woke me up.

Hoping I was still too groggy and caffeine-deprived to commence auditory processing for the day, he muttered something or other about where he was headed. To me, mind you. The me who ever hales from crunchy organic crusaders who kept their Rodale encyclopedias next to their Bibles, but now also the me who's a cleaned-up, greened-up cancer survivor. Yeah, buddy. Look out.

Hence (from a dead sleep, mind you) I launched a minimally coherent campaign for him to repent from his death juice junkie ways! Head instead, I implored him, to the very green & groovy Redenta's Garden Center! Begin the redemptive process of learning how to manage our yard organically!

Great Scot is not happy with Queen Shenaynay.

Great Scot just wants to fetch his trusty, familiar carcinogen cocktail death juice and be done with it. Great Scot thinks Queen Shenaynay is a pain. But Great Scot knows that Her Royal Pain-ness now holds the cancer card, and she ain't afraid to use it.

Great Scot just left for Redenta's.

Or so he said. But he was shaking slightly from Roundup withdrawals and silently grumbling in his spirit about the more hateful aspects of marriage. So you never know. It may be that he is just pretending to go along and is actually on his way to the pawn shop.

So if I should turn up missing, please come look for a new hump in our yard that reeks of Roundup.

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