It’s weed season, people! I’ve been looking forward to writing about this all year. Wait, my wife says weed season doesn’t exist. Well then, honey, why do I have a trillion seeds cleaving to my socks?! She tells me that means we’re in the dry season and dead weeds have gone to seed.
Good. Seeds are the reason I’ve been looking forward to weed season. I want to have a word about them. And in a word, I want them to suffer. In a few words, I want them to hitch a ride on a snake and witness horrible things before they are dragged by their own devices into a dark, dank hole.
Sticky weeds wouldn’t attach themselves to a snake because of the snake’s skin, you say? Who’s writing here, you or me?
Let me address writing for a second. Some say history is written by the winners, but it’s not. History is orated to peon writers by rich, powerful, often evil people, who bear titles like The Wise and Winsome One. They demand writers make them look good. A writer, staring at this impossibility, may wish he could use his writing powers to hitch Oh Sacred Song of Strength to the back of a snake. Then, Goodly King of Kindest Blessings would witness horrible things before the snake drags him down a dark, dank hole. Of course, the writer will think, Caring, Kindly Chris, Overlord of All, couldn’t possibly see anything that’s more horrible than what he hasn’t already done. And in the pages of history, if a writer tries to express his thoughts on this sort of stuff, he’ll usually – drumroll – be-heading to the chopping block. Yes, I’m a dad.
So history is written by poor, downtrodden writers who, like most people, want to live. Since they are forced to bottle their rage when they find themselves besieged by seeds, they go berserker. They know they should pick on someone their own size, but whenever they do this, they lose. There it is, history written by losers.
To get back to the topic of weeds, I did a little research on weeds just now, and since I didn’t feel like reading, I only read the names of some of these little buggers: Creeping Indigo, Skunk Vine, garden spurge, spiderwort. Okay, so I did skim a little and found that the two main culprits sprouting impossibly attachable seeds are Creeping Beggarweed and HeartLeaf Drymary. Now, I imagine that HeartLeaf Mary was a tender and compassionate plant loved by all for her, well, her heart-shaped leaf. However, she spawned sticky seeds, making her cursed by all. She took up drinking to ease her pain, joined a recovery group and has been dry ever since. Hence, HeartLeaf Drymary. As for Creeping Beggarweed, he’s obviously the town beggar of plants, cursing everyone who can’t spare some change with miniature, hedgehog-shaped, spiky seeds of insufferable pain.
But what really irks these two weeds (and I’m not doing any research on this since I trust my impeccable deductive skills) is the NASA scientist who so obviously ripped them off when he invented Velcro. Invented?! He simply wandered off a walking path and found these things all over his pants and proceeded to patent God’s creation. No wonder Mary and the Beggar are out to get us.
Now, I’m trying to think of a way to wrap all this up in a nice, neat bow. Sadly, some things in life are too difficult to put a bow around. Bows don’t fit on tyrants killing writers by slowly orating them to death with their lies, or plants that are easy to hate but should be loved. Yet, if I did come up with one, our sticky little friends would undoubtedly sneak into every nook and cranny of the bow, and we all know where that leads …