09.02.01
You know what, interloping-juvenile-possum-of-an-indeterminate-gender?
I am a great deal larger than you and I wield a broom.
You can hiss and spit and swat and bite at the broom all you want, but if you don't stop knocking over my flower pots, and get your furry little rat-tailed ass off of my porch, I'm going to swat you with the broom so hard that you're going to see what it feels like to fly into the neighbor's backyard and land on your pointy little head.
I realize that I surprised you by coming up the stairs with armloads of bags, as you were skampering around on my porch doing God know's what, but that's really no reason to attack innocent pots of impatiens. The damn squirrels are bad enough, what with their systematic annihilation of my poor geraniums and potted herbs, so I am sure you can see how your horticultural terrorism is completely unwanted.
I'm more than perfectly willing to share the outdoors with you. Just stay in the damn tree, okay?
