Are we there yet?

Thanks to another act of environmental carnage, the Oasis Berry Farm has proven itself to be a great example of everything a Right Livelihood should not be. Not that the Buddhist concept of Right Livelihood, or earning a living through moral and just means, was ever that high on my priority list. Sign-writing used and abused enough toxic chemicals to pollute whole oceans.  The vegetarian restaurant owners believed such a dietary choice to be nutritional suicide and only sold vegetarian food to make maximum profit out of a niche market. Focusing my art business on painting nude women every day could hardly be said to add to ones sense of moral equilibrium. And Bar Merlo flatly refused to use fair-trade coffee because of the economic impact it would have on their savings, ignoring the monumental impact it has on the coffee farmers chance of survival.

The carnage I speak of comes from tasty looking pink lollies that litter every row of strawberries here. Diabolically enough their purpose is to remove the gullible DNA strain from the rat gene pool. (I intend to test its potency on humans once Rus has guzzled enough alcohol to positively respond to suggestive manipulation.) Much to my own distress, I encountered a mortally challenged example of its effectiveness on Spur-winged Plovers instead.

If my living legend of a Sister was enamored with rats instead of plovers, I might be venting my anger about their plight. After all, it is not a rats fault their descendants were introduced here by human folly, and are labelled pests according to their impact on human endeavours. And plus, my rage was not ignited by finding a dead fur-ball with a worm for a tail, that might have left behind an entire litter of tiny fur-balls. I come from a family with an unexplainable penchant for bird-watching, so their well-being is accorded a slightly higher value. Hypercritical I agree, given how vehemently I argue for the equality of ALL sentient beings. Voting rights for ants!

With 2 adult Plovers dutifully guarding their off-spring from trespassing pickers in another corner of the farm, it is conceivable and heart-breaking to think that old mate was trying to treat his young chicks to a toxic lolly before it got the better of him. Adrenaline charged and seething, my sister would have undoubtedly put the entire farm to the torch; after flooding the place with her tears. She is a woman and quite temperamental after all. (Less tempera and more mental sometimes I think. Love her.)

This poor bird made the ultimate sacrifice to show me that every action has a consequence. Although I am sure it wasn't his intention, his death has taught me that all aspects of 21^st century are lived at the expense of someone else. The means the boss needs to employ here to make a profitable end, come with the hidden cost of extremely negative environmental impact that produce roidberrys with a chemical load challenging to even the most youthful of livers.

The strawberries are undeniably tasty and the best have the taste and texture of marshmallows. There is no substitute for snapping off a massive rock lobster that is red through, and chowing it down in one sweet, juicy mouthful. Unfortunately their chemical load gives one a satiated feeling akin to eating a similar quantity of paint. The liver sends a strongly worded message to the brain that continued consumption will result in unpredictable genetic mutations. Cool if it could guarantee an extra penis, x-ray vision or the ability to speak Chinese. More likely your potatoes will shrivel, you'll grow thorns around your ass or you'll just die a slow lingering death from cancer or cirrhosis of the liver.

The over achieving snot factory that is my immune system at present, could be battling the lingering effects of yesterdays always starving decision to eat a handful of roidberrys. It could also have something to do with copious amounts of booze that is consumed here. Or the paint. Who can tell for sure? Perhaps the Oasis Berry farms contribution to the spontaneous advent of X-Men, misfired in me and just cost me my toenails instead. A third one mutinied the other day, but still not the fungal one I have tried to heal for 4 years now. My cheap work boots are still the leading culprit. So in a sadistic twist of Fate, nah stupidity, as Fate is too busy hiding the paint, I have started wearing the boots again in an attempt to cure a problem that large quantities of neglect failed to solve.

The weeding was finally completed after about 5 days, and an untold amount of successful attempts to 'stretch the hours out'. Even bent, blissing out and bopping along to some funky grooves was not enough to turn the most repetitive of gardening duties into an enjoyable endeavour. All the roots are hidden under the black plastic that shields the precious roidberrys from the damaging effects of things like unadulterated rain water. The plastic also makes a wonderful little hide out for big mutant arachnids with opposable fingers, sharp teeth and friggin' lazer beams on their heads. If the weed snaps at the root, none of my fingers ventured into the depths to pull them out. Facing up to that fear could be considered remedial, but I am here for work, not therapy.