Cry havoc and let slip the gnomes of war! These little pointy-hatted bastards are ferocious. Like happy little waddling Piranha. Everything is calm and tranquil in the yard. The sun is caressing your petunias. The sprinklers lazily water the lawn and recede. A bird twitters and drinks from a fountain. The morning dew still glistens on the brows and beards of decorative gnomes in your garden. Suburbia is tranquil today… Until you set out a pink flamingo on your lawn and walk back into your humble abode.
That’s when all hell breaks loose as cries of fury and bloodlust alight the wings of birds in fever fright and horror flight. Hi-ho Hi-ho it’s off to kill they go, little legs pouncing, arms flailing. A wave of pure craven hunger unbound. A collective beast of frenzied shrieks and gnashing of teeth, they devour their stick legged prey. Smiles of victory behind gore dripping faces. Cries of ecstasy. Groans of torment.
And then these little f**kers go back to standing in your garden as if nothing ever happened, while you think some punk kids stole your $5 flamingo that you bought from Walmart. This is why I don’t trust Lawn Gnomes. No f**cking way.
