I can’t verify this, but if things continue as they are, I may be driven to the point that I have the opportunity to find out first-hand. But, I’m pretty sure that the road to Hell is trimmed in banana plants, those big, floppy-leafed scourges of the yard. The only thing that could possibly make banana plants more hatefully heinous would be cross-breeding them with poison oak. At which point, we need to tap out and surrender the planet because we’ve lost the war on agri-terrorism.
If you’re considering planting one of these pests in your yard, just go home because you’re drunk. You’d be better off – and definitely happier in the long run – if you simply backed up a cement truck and paved over your entire property. Although, this may be the only way to get rid of the chlorophyll creatures from the pits of someplace unspeakable once you’ve got them.
Despite my homeowners association frowning on such thing, I’m talking napalm, flame-throwers, small nuclear devices detonated from a safe distance across the street. Voodoo and practitioners of the dark arts are also not off the table in my battle against the bananas. Here’s the problem: you can hack them to the roots, dig them out and salt the earth and they’ll still find a way to come back. They’re vegetational herpes. This is truly the price we’ve paid for the whole mishap in the Garden of Eden: God said, “Get out and go live in shame with the banana plants.”
So after two long, bloody years of hand-to-leaf combat, I finally felt I had eradicated the green plague. Then as I’m licking my wounds and trying to recover from the resulting PTSD, the banana plant in my neighbor’s yard has sent up a scout on my side of the fence. Naturally, I’m triggered. The machete has long since been put in a locked location to keep me from hurting myself or others (like my neighbor who obviously shops in the garden center at ISIS Depot).
Unless your family name is Dole and you live in a jungle in Nicaragua, there’s no reason to have banana plants. Propagating this problem should be considered a crime against all humanity and punished accordingly. For the sake of all that’s holy, If you want a banana, go to Kroger.
(Tip of the hat to Mabination for the graphic)
Dear Cell Service Provider Which Will Not Be Named Because I Don’t Want To Be Sued: thank you for teaching me some important things about myself that I didn’t know before I spent nearly two hours in your store. Not since I tried to get worked in for an appointment at the doctor’s office during the height of cold/flu/plague/Ebola season have I had so much fun wasting what’s left of my life. I admit that I have been remiss in upgrading my phone, but, you understand, I would rather continue to shovel coal into the back of mine to keep it going than face your store. Only the unfortunate — though not unexpected — demise of my phone forced me to darken your doorstep.
The experience, however, taught me that I have the uncanny ability to suppress my dignity and nap on your floor by the front door. Shamelessly. I needed that nap because I have worn myself out glaring at salespeople who aren’t helping me. Pulling together a really effective Evil Eye requires a lot of energy, after all. Otherwise you end up with a Not Nice Eye which just does not have the same impact. Real evil requires real effort. But why am I telling you that, dear cell service provider, as I believe you may be the actual creator of evil. (And if it’s not you, I’m thinking it might be my health insurance company. You’re probably working together, right?)
During my time in your store, I’d like to say what a joy it was to interact with your employees, except that would be a lie. While I accept that I’m on the express bus to Hell for a lot of reasons, lying isn’t one of them. Okay, maybe not the main one. Regardless, I do have to applaud your ability to find, recruit, hire and train people who can function without conscious thought, logic, or basic positive personality traits. Of course, Texas is a Right to Work state, so, yes, even zombies need jobs. Good on you for hiring all of them. I’m interested to know what the company picnic looks like, but, no, I don’t really. Forget I said that part.
What I do want to say is: “Thanks!” and I love my new phone that costs more than my son’s first year at a major university. I love that I’ll be reminded of this experience every month for the next 36 months when my newly increased bill arrives. It’ll be like paying child support for my phone. Oh, and I hate you.