I spent the weekend protesting the Iranian elections from my balcony jungle night and day, day and night. The symbolically green tomatoes, along with the new Stevia plant, and me are pert near ready to drive to Tehran right now. I’ve got garden trowel and I’m not afraid to put it anywhere it should not be.
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What we need is a shit ton of salt. It is the best thing for slugs and slimy dictators. If US citizen salted Dubya with even a small teaspoon of Tony Chachere’s Creole Seasoning, we wouldn’t be in half the mess we’re in now. Look – it’s not hard. Even margarita salt will do. BBQ-ists, alcoholics, anyone with something salty should fly to Iran and start shaking.
Even my purple pansies are upset about this thing in Iran. All twenty-two blossoms (tall as weeds!) are ready for a fight. Do you know anything about the way pansies fight? They are worse than screaming animals. Vindictive like a woman with the power of a man. And you know the pansy was probably right, every time, which makes them capable doing anything. Only one person walks away from those kinds of altercations, and barely. If cable TV ever staged a fight between pansies and anyone else, I’d buy five subscriptions. Riveting stuff.
My yellow celosia is armed, the marigold is spouting ten back-ups and the impatients are in a hurry to help out. The hydrangea is leaning left now, too, even though it was leaning right last week. The gladiolus plants are turning red with anger. The lettuce? That lettuce was packed the day after the Iranian election. Ahmadinejad doesn’t have the dressing it would take to hold down this salad.
I’ve got chicken wire and pliers and I'm mad as hell. Iran - me and the garden are behind you all the way. Get 'er done!
Helter Skelter – The Beatles
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