No longer green, the local gardens have turned red, white and blue. Political placards now bend in the breeze where summer's flowers were: clumps of cardboard Trumps and fluttering Bidens all in a row. Why do people willingly plant such poisonous weeds in front of their houses? They only attract angry, militant locusts instead of thoughtful butterflies.
Meanwhile, angry neighborhood 'activists' both red and blue are grinding up their candidate's agenda into a potpourri of bullshit bullet-points; a stinking compost heap of half-truth and platitude arranged in a decorative presentation basket which they leave on my porch. But I'm not bringing such parasite-laden herbage into my home. Vote for him? No, but I will spray him with powerful pesticide.
Politics, of course, is a type of self-perpetuating fungus that feeds on infected human brains until it becomes a pulsating, walnut-sized ball of inflexible rage. And once politics has entirely consumed the host, its venomous slogan-spores are spat into the world. Stuck to the bumpers of collaborating cars, these slogan-spores scatter their dogmatic contagion around town, seeking to impregnate gullible brains with militant seeds to propagate even more of their kind.
I limit my own gardening to a simple evergreen border of bemused detachment. The only decoration is a modest pumpkin carved into the likeness of the sort of benevolent spirit I'd like to see become President. There's a lantern inside but the light just gets dimmer with every passing year. It's almost extinguished altogether.
Your pumpkin prez maybe aesthetically pleasing [to you], but who's gonna cut the mustard?
That's what I hire my Administration for. No matter their external qualities or lack thereof.
A nice slogan-free garden, however, sounds very tempting right now
Posted by: Tatyana | October 17, 2020 at 10:20