Fernal EquinoxFebruary 25, 2008
Out of principle, I don’t own any pets. I have the firm personal belief that in lieu of the fact I can barely take care of myself that I should not be in charge of the well-being of another lifeform. Seriously, I’m amazed that I haven’t starved to death or blown myself up yet.
So it came as a surprise when I woke up the other day to find that I had a fern in my house. There are disjointed memories of a grain alcohol and laundry detergent bender happening this past weekend, and the inkling that there might have been a ridiculous high-stakes poker game with strange things being wagered and won by the salty vicious souls at the table. I guess that explains where I got the fern, and the teenage Russian girl chained to my oven cooking my breakfast. She keeps yelling something in that crazy language of hers. I think it’s either that she wishes to be set free or that we’re out of cinnamon.
But Anastasia and my supply of cinnamon are not my main concern. The fern is. I don’t know the first thing about taking care of ferns so I call up someone who has some experience with mother nature.
“It’s going to need daily waterings,” says Avonia the Wiccan Pimp. “And it’s a good idea to talk to your plant.”
So a few days go by and the fern starts looking bad, so I give Avonia a call to come back over.
“Have you been watering it?” she asks.
“Yes, I have,” I say.
“I’m not wasting my vodka on a stupid plant,” I say.
“Have you been talking to it?” asks Avonia.
“Yes I have.”
“And what have you been saying to it?” Avonia asks.
“Mainly insults and swear words,” I say. “Been working out some new material. Yesterday I called my fern a ‘putrid puddle of cock vomit’ and a ‘useless slice of rancid cunt.’”
“Well, no wonder it’s dying,’ say Avonia. “You can’t curse out your plants. All that negativity is toxic for them.”
“So I should swear at them in a positive manner?” I say. “Like how you can anything to a dog as long as you do it in that stupid lovey-dovey voice ‘Who’s a good dog? Who’s a good dog? Who’s a piece of unlovable shit?’”
Avonia shakes her head. “No, you shouldn’t swear at them at all.”
“Fuck that shit,” I say.
Avonia the Wiccan Pimp gets real close to the plant and starts whispering to it for a while. And then the fern perks up slightly.
“What sort of sorcery is this?” I bellow. “Oh… right, you’re a witch. I forgot. But what did you do?”
“It’s a gift,” says Avonia. “As a healer and servant of the Goddess, I speak the words of the language of nature, the fernacular if you will.”
“Well, I think the Goddess would want you to take this fern off my hands, rather than have me kill it with profanity,” I say.
And so I give Avonia the fern and she agrees to give it a good home.
“Hey, you want something to eat before you go?” I ask Avonia. “I can get Anastasia to whip something up for you.”
“Who’s Anastasia?” she asks.
“Never mind who she is or which City Council member I won her from,” I say. “She makes a great Denver omlette when she’s not crying.”
Avonia declines breakfast, but I still want to repay her for taken the fern off my hands. So I offer to have the Lithuanian boy locked in my basement mow her lawn, which she also declines. Damn it, what the hell do you do with a 9-year-old Lithuanian boy that you won in a poker game? All he’s really good at is lawn work and dancing to Madonna songs.
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