Ten years of drought in Central Texas and our lawn is kinda like a tan crusty mat of Texas sand burrs. Looks just fine, actually. But over the past few years, those little fuckers have won the war and are finally in everything in the house. Throw rugs, upholstery, curtains, blankets, SOCKS, shoe soles, mats, towels, pants, chairs, ugh, you name it, you touch it, it's got sand burrs in it. I pick them off before I do the laundry. I pick them off after I do the laundry. I pick them off while I'm putting the laundry away. I pick them off when I'm getting dressed. I pick them off when I step on one and yell. I sweep them off the tile. They're an army of invasive little knives.
The jokes on them, though. They'll never sprout on the tile, so their journey to spread their seed far and wide was thwarted. Ha! Screw you, sand burrs. Unless they've taken over the landfill where my trash goes, in which case I guess they win. Dammit.