The Root of My Failure

It was not a complicated task. I was charged with scrubbing the yard of all grime, dirt, and vegetation.  My otherwise well-balanced employer had a caustic hatred of plant-life.  (He once told me a fragment of an episode where, as a child, he had seen a potted geranium attack and brutally murder his favorite Aunt Silvia. From this point forward, the traumatized Norm Omweg had built and depleted a vast fortune with the explicit function of destroying all plant-life. Well, at least that which he may have some opportunity to encounter.) I had been in the employ of the old bastard for three years and had many times taken an acid scrub to his cement-work to the rear of his residence. The moist nature of Southern Wales meant that that moss was to be my continued annoyance. I have no problem with the moss. It is easily enough abated. But that damned dandelion! I had come upon it's previous incarnation about a month ago late in the afternoon. My fingers were torn and raw from the acid treatment and brittlely pained by the cold. When the weed came apart in my grasp, leaving the roots hiding... convalescing... gleefully beating me below the walk. I muttered something about my rate of pay and went home.  Well I'm sacked. For shizzle.