Working the Old Soil
The rainclouds having retreated, it was once again time to busy my fingers in the earth. Fashion begins with foundation, as they say, so I occupied myself for a few mornings with the removal of winter's detritus: those cheap grassy weeds that grow but do not flower, meandering tendrils of ivy, the moldering carcasses of eviscerated dog toys, and a year's worth of competitively-flung bottle caps. Eventually I had a few level beds with which to work, and I even had a pallet of good red clay brick delivered, which I stacked up and watered on a sweltering day to make humid afternoon sunning bays for my orchids.
Unfortunately Todd*, employing the varied and misfiring talents of his ruined mind, mistook one of my cherished phalaenopses for a heroin-producing opium poppy, and gobbled it right down to the roots. Then, instead of penning a smash album of transcending genius and unifying pathos, he immediately fell over in fits of peristalsis and did a noisy wee on the side of my Coca-Cola. The visuals of the reassembled orchid did nothing for me, so I sprayed both art and artist off among the tomatoes with the hose and went inside for an iced glass of mint tea.
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*Unfortunately Todd: Wouldn't that just be a divine name for a SitCom about the little monster?