Brown Thumbs Unite!

When I back out of or pull into my driveway every day, sometimes several times a day, I have to block out the heinous eyesore to my left. What you ask is so worthy of being blocked out daily? Myyyyy,  lawn. I’m not sure it’s really fair to use the word lawn actually. How offensive to real lawns. Regardless, I just pretend I don’t see that hot mess. Apparently I am a member of one of the mosted hated groups in America, the Brown Thumbs. The Brown Thumbs, where our motto is: We’ve never met a plant we couldn’t kill!

Oh I see the looks in the eyes of my lawn mower obsessed neighbors as they walk by our stickerbush stalks that populate all of our front slope. Hey, I say better to keep the robbers away. Who wants their hurried ass to fall into a patch of sticker bushes the size of Jack’s beanstalk? Not any robber I know! In all fairness to me though, I do try to pull those fuckers up out of the ground often. But they hurt dammit. They’re not called sticker bushes for their soft furry coating. I know what you’re thinking, “Duh, wear some gardening gloves doofus.” I do and they do nothing to protect my precious fingers from the stick of these nasty beasts. It’s like Day of the Triffids out there in my front lawn when I go to battle these pricks. So it’s not that I don’t try…a little…a teeny tiny bit. In all truth, it takes a lot of hard work to be this lawn lazy.

I’m pretty sure I’ve got what it takes to kill a cactus. Just send yours over to my house to babysit while you’re vacationing in the Caribbean, and I can almost guarantee you’ll be taking a dead cactus home to Arizona with you. I’ve got one decent looking plant that I take care of at my house. I was all proud of my work in keeping the thing alive when my plant snob brother-in-law reminded me that the plant I have (see I’m bad, I don’t even remember what he called it) is one of the hardiest plants out there. An Antarctic blizzard wouldn’t be able to take this plant down. Gee. THANKS A LOT, B-I-L, be sure to not let me enjoy even a moment of greenthumbedness.

You know what I say? Fuck the Green Thumbs! That’s right, fuck em all! Oh they’re sooooo superior with their fancy pruning shears and their stupid Chinese grass. They walk around with their wide brimmed hats and their tacky floral gloves like they own the damn planet. Here, why don’t you kneel down on your comfy little garden foam pad so I can show you where you can stick your trowel! And they’re  always smiling. What are they so happy about? Because the rest of us are jealous that we don’t spend 80 hours a week pulling weeds?

Well, at least in my yard (well for lack of a better word) you won’t find animal poop. Nope, even the feral cats and raccoons won’t step foot in it. Why should they? They have their choice between our yard where everything is either dead or preparing for death by weeds, OR they could go hang out in our neighbor’s yard where it looks like the Candy Land board vomited on it. I’m not gonna lie, I wouldn’t be mad if Gum Drop Mountain were in my yard. That would be the life.

I tease the Green Thumbs. I’m actually rather fond of them. I rely on them to keep these property values up. They certainly can’t rely on me. And let’s face it, there is nothing like a pretty patch of tulips in spring. Perhaps if I hang out more with my green thumb friends, they will rub off on me and I will get to join their illustrious group. *snicker snicker*. I know. I don’t see it happening either. But it was good for a laugh.