Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Every accursed flower in the world could try–try and fail, you immobile bastards–to saturate my eyeballs with foul seed, and still I’d cling wretchedly to life, propelled solely by my indomitable mission to teach you science. Yes, science.
I’ve sneezed out most of my memories today, dear reader, but despite this setback I’ve salvaged some fun facts. If you cram a lizard into a freezer and then an oven and back into a freezer, it will probably croak, and not in the traditional frog sense. Gravity operates at 3.14 miles per second squared, unless we presuppose the first law of gigglenomics, in which case it becomes absolutely hilarious. But the most important thing I remember is shown here:
My eyes!
Comb your memory banks carefully enough and you too will recall this vile diagram, a colorful homage to those who would have us warble praises to them with phlegm-filled throats. Your teachers may have forced their armchair theories on you, but I’m here to detoxify your mind and tell you how these plants work.
Before we begin, some warnings. First, there is no flower on earth that resembles this drawing. It is a cruel caricature designed to make your nostrils run moist with rage. Second, anatomical captions do not occur in nature per se, and it will remain that way if you stay off the sauce.
Stamen
“Flower cock,” I hear one of you wiseasses say. Wrong. Put aside your vulgarity, if only for a moment, and consider the clandestine transactions conducted herein. These are antennae, bastions of villainy designed to relay coded messages. Observe:
“Next [STOP] round’s [STOP] on [STOP] me [STOP] if [STOP] she [STOP] sniffs [STOP] you.”
“One [STOP] day [STOP] I’ll [STOP] be [STOP] a [STOP] real [STOP] boy.”
“Oh [STOP] shit [STOP] the [STOP] gardener.”
Stamen can also turn into eyes. Careful. They’re watching.
Pistil
The very picture of indecision, when really it’s a sad bid for attention.
“Look at me,” says the flower, “I’m a legitimate form of life because I have a goddamn ovary. I also don’t like caviar because it’s chic to only eat foods with five or more syllables. Don’t touch me!”
The storehouses of despair.
Resepapetacle
Will the trickery never cease? You’ll notice three arrows pointing to the same object, namely the device that transforms everything good and wholesome into pollen. A ladybug lands on the petal, out comes pollen. A soft breeze places a winning lottery ticket on a petal, out comes pollen. Someone trips, pollen. Genocide, pollen. Thanksgiving sale, pollen.
Pedicel
Much like our journey, this is the end. This is the place from whence pollen pours. Remember the accursed hive that unleashed the accursed bee who heeded the accursed call and ignored the accursed stigma and landed on the accursed petal? You just inhaled it.