Confession of a Serial Plant Killer
Repotted Post from the Cellar.
This is the third day of my incarceration at a maximum-security garden center.
The florist glares at me from behind a bouquet of roses armed with tiny Samurai spikes. And she thinks I’m the dangerous one. I think we’re both the same, but she’d disagree. She cuts off the stems of. I cut off their heads. They look better that way.
If only I didn’t get caught decapitating a purple begonia in my neighbor’s yard. I didn’t see the camera hidden in the Lawn Gnome’s hat. I never liked Lawn Gnomes with their evil little grins and pointy heads.
At least I had the pleasure of seeing its head drop in the dirt before the plant police hauled me away.
They picked me up just a little past noon while I plotted my next crime, kidnapping an Orchid from a greenhouse. The ransom money would have paid for an electric hedge cutter I’d been saving up to buy.
Damn Lawn Gnome!
The foliage cops came for me while I stood in my garage holding a plastic bag and roll of duct tape. They were dressed in green jumpsuits and drove a golf cart with a bonsai planter on the roof.
I tried to hold them off with a tomato plant duster, but they restrained my wrists with garden twist ties then perp walked me down the driveway.
As the wind picked up, I heard a broken shutter bang against the siding. It reminded me of a snare drum at an execution, although in my daydream I was the executioner and lopped off the heads of flowers with a guillotine.
The horticultural shrink asked me why I enjoyed killing plants. Of course, she had her own theory. She thought it had something to do with the first time I got poison Ivy. I scratched for days and had to go to school covered with calamine lotion.
The kids called me pinko the clown and threw erasers at me. The chalk dust stuck to the calamine on my arms and legs, the spots alternated from pink to yellow. I looked like a walking board game.
But it wasn’t the poison ivy. The shrink was wrong; they always dig too deep into the dirt for answers and just wind up with mud. It was far less complicated than that. It was lime Jell-O in fact.
I was forced to eat the quivering green goop when I was a kid. My mother said that it was good for me because it was green like the grass. Just looking at the stuff made me retch. But she made me eat it any way, as she knelt by the garden shoving plants into the dirt.
So, I gagged on lime Jell-O, as she buried flowers in their makeshift graves, keeping their psychotropic heads above ground facing sky, while my face pointed toward mother earth; I gave up another cup of Jell-O into a 12-inch pot.
That’s why I did it, because of the lime Jell-O and all the hype about photosynthesis, which has nothing to do with cameras and everything to do with sunlight. I’d rather bag the remains of a rotting plant than upchuck one more cup of lime Jell-O.
But that’s a conversation for another day with the horticultural shrink.
Do you kill plants? Do you prefer death by drowning, mutilation or dehydration?