Well, the 40% probability of rain turned out to be in my favour, so I went outside for my first skirmish with the yellow-headed hydra that is my lawn. I have no illusions concerning the long-term efficacy of manually digging dandelions, but there is something satisfying about levering up six or eight inches of carrot-sized root, never mind that the tiny shard left deep underground is just lurking. Oh, I'll be back, it says.
I've thought about getting one of the stand-up weeders that purport to yank up the evil bastards with a simple foot-stomp and a little wrist action, but working at a distance like that means that I may not hear the satisfying snap as the top-most part of the root comes up. I can imagine the screams as I rip the plant asunder, tossing it in the bag with its mangled cohorts, all on their way to the compost heap.
Oh, they'll be happy for a day or so, revelling in the rich, fertile compost until, once again, I foil their plans and re-bury them to await the killing heat of the fermentation process. To soil they shall return, giving up their nutrients to feed the flowers, the vegetables, our friends.
But they'll be back.
I hate dandelions.