Right now my least favorite daffodil is showing signs of having been poisoned, appearing somewhat disinterested with its environment and looking like it ingested something that made its seedhead face grimace in discomfort or perhaps giving an expression that says, “Hmmm, the martini I drank at this Mediterranean casino was rather disappointing”. Soon it will experience spastic collapse before flailing and flopping its way onto another innocent perennial growing nearby and asking itself “WHAT kind of world am I coming into?”
Soon there will be heard an immense cascade of hundreds more daffodils dying, giving off all manner of Shakespearean expressions of sorrow.
As I arrived home from work and observed the daffs wilting under my watchful gaze as everything else came back into bloom, I lamented silently: “It’s enough just witnessing this horrific display of suffering and death on our planet – thank God I don’t hear all those moans!” before entering my house.
At that moment I hear the wails of my wife and children at the window watching the carnage; my wife clutching the skirt of one child, all spewing tears like an overflowing faucet. My wife approaches, dragging both children across the floor. “Oh please,” she beseeches “My strong handsome and amazing good-in-bed husband…please, please…do something.” As soon as she realized what she had said aloud before them she blushed deeply; as I gazed upon the children I couldn’t tell whether to believe her words or whether or not.
“Don’t worry honey; I’ll put it out of its misery!” was what came into my head as an impetus for action. Pretending like I were an employee at a race track with an injured race horse who is struggling for support on its legs, I pulled out my gun. “Don’t worry honey; I’ll put an end to its suffering!” I promised.
As I stride out into the yard and set up, preparing to fire my shot, an unexpected visitor arrives from the Daffodil Society with her hand on her hip – beeping like mad and shaking her breasts: “No! No!” she exclaimed; you must wait until all the foliage dies back so your bulb has enough energy for blooming again next spring.
“Next spring seems so far away,” I thought to myself, looking at the Daffodil Society woman and then my wife and children gesturing wildly through the window. Turning my attention back towards the daffodil, which seemed desperate for mercy; “Stand back,” I ordered, taking aim. “I am going to free this soulful flower from its mortal coil!” But then something unexpected happened: Daffodil Lady did something unanticipated; she threw herself over it – giving me no choice but to react accordingly! Dammit! What?!” I exclaimed.
“We must let nature take its course. Otherwise…” She stammers. I remain perplexed, still pointing my gun loosely towards her.
As soon as the cops arrived, I saw my gun. With no other choice available to them, they tazed me multiple times until I collapsed onto the lawn like an fish – to howls of laughter from all directions in my neighborhood – making me question whether or not daffodils were worth all this trouble: same thing happened last year and may happen again next year too – are they worth it?”
At the county lockup, scrolling photos on my phone in my cell, I recall all the good times in my life like they were some kind of weird dream. Christmas, New Years and Birthdays come and go like passing clouds; then suddenly spring arrives with its first daffodil – then another! And before I forget, before my mind wanders elsewhere I turn back to my calendar app, scroll to some random date in August, and type: “Order more daffs!”
