Utah seems pretty joyless in general to me.
Visit whatever - and move on...
If it was a Japanese Beetle I could recommend a trap that would get rid of it. German Beetle, I’m not so sure...
Great Flaming Wolf Spiders!!!
Call the exterminator! Her tree has bugs!
Gosh, maybe she should think about tidying up her yard and maybe it wouldn't look like a salvage yard. Just sayin'.
I’m with the hippy lady. Old curmudgeon complainers should get a pie in the face.
Joyless Utah. Reminds me of the old joke:
Q: "What's Mormon foreplay?"
A: "Two hours at Baskin-Robbins."
“Lighten up, Francis.”
He gave his Mom a car with no engine?
What a great son.
I hope she gave him the flu.
I don’t know. Kind of looks like crap. And it’s gonna look worse, as the paint fades and the rubber rots and the metal rusts, in relatively short order it’s gonna look like junk in a tree.
Actually, that Beetle is about the only thing on her property that looks halfway nice.
That whole place looks slightly better than a junk yard.
Her house looks like crap. Maybe if she cleaned up the yard some I would agree with her.
Grandma should just tell the city it’s a transgender Beetle and they better back off if they don’t want hate crime charges brought against them.
It’s a German car.
Hanging from a tree!
In chains!
She’s a Germanphobe!
Here is review of Moab from an anonymous source:
Yes, Moab is a great place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there. I know because I have been stuck in this stinking dump for fifteen years. I wish I could leave, but my resources are gone. It is easy to make a small fortune here. You just bring a large one and wait. There are no jobs here. There is a urinal cake factory that spews its stench over the town like a meth lab gone all wrong. I feel like a Senator stuck in a toilet stall without even a vice cop to seduce. Forget culture. Unless you think enchiladas made with cream of mushroom soup is haute cuisine, you are out of luck. My property continues to decline in value, so even if I sell I won’t even be able to make it to a decent welfare office in a real city. I love all the things that Moab offers. Rocks, sand, sunlight, wind, dust. Did I mention rocks? The highlight of my week was watching cars being crushed two blocks from my foul, smelly home. No one that I know is better off than I, and most are even more depressed, poverty stricken, and desperate. All of the neighbors nearby have moved out, so there isn’t even a junkie or registered sex offender around to entertain me, these being the previous occupants of the now vacant houses. The junkies’ lovely children kept setting my yard and their house on fire, so actually, I am a bit relieved that they have moved on, although it is difficult to sleep without the screaming and smell of smoke. I miss the sex offender as well. Somehow looking out the window is not as deeply fulfilling now, without seeing him there, staring back. I am the only person I know who actually lives in a real, live mobile home. My better-off friends live in abandoned vehicles, discarded travel trailers, or structures made of things like PVC pipe and clear plastic, mud and straw, or composites of several of these fascinating architectural genres. My less auspicious friends simply live in culverts, or move around for variety. One just stays drunk and lives on the river. He is no longer fully house trained, so I usually visit him. Another one simply lives outside with his mules. He is a famous local artist, so he gets special treatment. Among my friends are engineers, teachers, craftsmen, and other degreed professionals. Our skills are many, but opportunities to use them here are rare. Burglars have the same difficulty here, as well, since there is little to steal. Moab has robbed us of any dignity, self-esteem, or hope that we foolishly brought with us. I have had the sublime pleasure of dumpster diving with two PHD’s at the same time. We talked about existentialism as we attempted to find the hidden meaning in the delightful discarded food therein. Sadly, the supermarket now destroys all its expired food. Can’t be feeding the poor. It only encourages them. The hidden meaning was “escape while there is still time.”
Heh. Wifey and I had a 1973 Super Beetle, but it was blue. Our first new car. Bought it in Hawaii when the state was still a part of the U.S.