Man’s history is full of brutal killings, rapes and unimaginable tortures. He overflows with hate and envy and is afflicted with more psychotic disorders than you could spell with a Dr. Seuss alphabet. I’d say all in all he’s a pretty swell guy when you don’t get to know him.
Lately, however, I’ve become aware of the violence that surrounds us, which is perpetrated not by man, but by happy little animals, buzzing insects, and yes, even by those shy, reticent plants.
I recently learned that there are no less than 367 known species of carnivorous plants (isn’t Mother’s Day coming up?). I remind you that’s only the known species. God knows how many take a bite here, a nibble there, when you’re not looking.
I always knew that those common-as-dirt platitudes about plants living for nothing but water and sweet sunshine were a lot of fertilizer. They’re out for blood and raw meat. They’re the worst sorts of maniacs, so quiet and unassuming. Yet we’re lulled by their beauty and charming manners. We take them into our homes, provide them with shelter, water them, and even play music to stimulate their growth. I am now certain that the only reason they like music is because it covers up their wicked conversations about how they’d like to swim in pools of our blood.
Right now, as I sit here, the plants in this room are watching me, hungrily waiting for me to nod off. Good Lord, how evil they look when you know the truth! I can almost see them licking their thin plant-lips, and when I come near I can read their damp, pungent thoughts. They wish I would fall and crack my head open on their ceramic planters so that my vital fluids would drain into their miserable leafy clutches.
Some will argue that man is the only creature that kills for pleasure, while plants and animals kill only for food. But this is not so. Just look at the variety of plants that use poison as a means to your end. They are the Sidney Greenstreets of the plant world, the gentlemen killers, very refined, very discreet and very deadly. They don’t kill for food. To them, killing is a game of wits, and their victories (as they would call them) are tabulated and run up on a scoreboard. Of course, if you were to confront one of them with this, he would give a deep, hearty laugh and say, “Sir, you sorely misjudge me. I’m not a machine, you know. I take exquisite delight in holding the mysterious elixir of life in my tendrils. I kill with passion, I kill because I find it exhilarating, because it quickens my blood and electrifies my soul. I like best the face that is made when they first realize what has happened, and that it is too late. It is a peculiar face, almost comical, and one I suppose I shall never tire of seeing.”
It has been said, “the meek shall inherit the earth” (I believe I saw it on the back of a flower seed packet). I don’t know about you, but I intend to do my part to make sure that “the meek” don’t come in the form of green chlorophyll monstrosities. I’ve already taken a flamethrower to my neighborhood and if my petrol holds out, I’ll make it to yours soon. So what are you going to do, tree hugger? How much more will you take before you stand up and scream? I suggest you do so now. A loud, sudden noise frightens plants temporarily, and it may give you time for that last cigarette.
