My worst freakin' nightmare:

When I was a kid, I never understood what my father had against dandelions. I thought they were pretty. And when they were done being pretty, they'd get all fuzzy headed, and that was when the fun began; that was when you could blow on them with every last bit of breath in your tiny body in a quixotic effort to free every single seedling and watch them float away. (Your wish only came true if you blew them all off, and even though I had quite the set of pipes when I was eight, I was never able to get every last one. Alas.) My father always had a fit when I did that. He liked to keep his yard a pristine green of unbroken lines mowed into the lawn, just like Yankee Stadium.

Now I own my own home, which includes a lovely landscaped garden, which is under attack. When we first moved in, I spent three days clearing those little yellow fuckers out of our lovely but somewhat negelcted garden. It took some serious work, because each nasty little cluster of leaves has a nefariously long tap root that's got to be dug out or they pop right back up. I swear those things are trying to reach right down to the depths of HELL from whence they came, and they hold on so tight to the earth so that even when you've scraped your hands raw trying to get at them in the tiny crack between the lovely landcaped rocks where the little bastards have dug in, they snap off at the top half of the root and shake their ugly little serrated leaves at you in laughter, because like the Hydra they will just grow their heads back, and like Sisyphus you will be out there THE VERY NEXT DAY digging at the same fershlugginer root.

I guess everyone's got to have a hobby, though.