emma b. says

Monday, January 03, 2005

Emma the Pointsettia Slayer

But first a report on the weather, or rather the light. It mostly has not rained today, and the light is soft and difuse. Another storm is rolling in and the darker clouds bank against the emptied clouds, it's celestial bumper clouds, all is silvery somnolent. Except that I just noticed a bright pink building in China Town that I hadn't noticed before.

Now back to relaying the flower (plant?) slaying. My boss has tasked me with undoing the various Holiday Themed Decorations that Massive Bank feels obliged to display in keeping with the season, so that the poor drudges can look up while chained to their desks and gaze upon the pointsettias and contemplate their Massive Bonuses and inwardly chant BMW, Mercedes, Porsche, or whatever European Luxury automobile they fancy. Pointsettia's are poison, fuckers, watch out.

And since 2004 hacked it's last whooping cough and expired and was reborn as spritely and slightly hung over 2005, it's time to dispose of the holiday detritus, which meant that I had to savagely dump all of those still lovely pointsettias into the trash.

And I feel guilty. I tried to foist them off on the admins but to no avail. I put a living thing into the trash and it's almost enough to turn me into a tetchy vegan, except for the no chicken, bacon, steak, pork chop thing. Which reminds of the horrible story of D and I throwing the lobster away, because, here we are two accomplished people (well, I was the more, and remain the more accomplished person in the kitchen...) and we pussy out on boiling the lobster, because we are two Gine-ormous pussies, so we bury it, I repeat, bury the lobster in the trash to suffer horribly. I can still hear the fucking thing scrabbling about in the paper bag... Mind you, this was years ago, and I still feel pangs for not slaying the fucking lobster as he would have undoubtedly made a tasty dinner.

And so, well, there is Emma in that special part of hell reserved for slayers of poinsettia's and negligent homicide of lobsters as well as having mocked the nice ladies with mullets wearing the green sparkly smocks for singing the dreadful Annie and her lover song last Christmas... But I am content, as I suspect that part of hell will be comfortably balmy with a clear window into the inner circle where I intend to watch Feckless Leader and his band of Fucking Evil cronies do the Danse Macabre on their blackened limbs, with their singed, misshapen jiggly bits, especially you OverLord Dick C. dancing on the hot fetid winds for all eternity. Can't. Hardly. Wait!

Which brings me to Christmas Trees, of which I am not guilty of slaying, but am guilty of getting weepy over them as they are cast out of warm living rooms, onto sidewalks, still festooned in tinsel and browning with bitterness. I realize that as an adult, I should not anthropomorhize the trees but I was scarred by the children's book (I tried to google it, but there are about ten thousand Christmas Tree books) about the tree that never gets picked, finally gets picked, is thrilled, is decorated, is loved by small children, only to be abandoned on the sidewalk and then scooped up by the horrifically evil Garbage Man and thrown in the FIRE! Scarred, scarred I am.

Last year when the City misguidedly thought it might try putting round-a-bouts all down Page Street....I don't know why they thought it was a good idea, because it was bad, very, very bad. American drivers don't know what to do in a round point so they speed up and pray they don't hit any drivers or pedestrian. Leave le rond point to the French. Anyway, after Christmas, when the disgruntled denizens of Page Street started BURNING their poor, poor abandoned Christmas trees in the round points the City took them away and everyone breathed a sigh of relief and went back to making California roll-through stops at the stop signs and all was as it should be.

And now I will cease to ramble.


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