I never intended to become a gardener. In fact, for most of my life I had been perfectly content observing plants from the comfort of a lawn chair with a cold drink and a vague sense of superiority.
But one day, inspired by a particularly smug segment on homegrown kale, I made the fatal decision to grow something — anything — with my own two hands.
I purchased gloves, a trowel, and an enormous sun hat that made me resemble an Edwardian widow in mourning for her tulips.
The backyard was modest: a patch of earth roughly the size of a pool table, previously used by raccoons for community meetings and interpretive dance.
I cleared it, hoed it, raked it, and sowed it — seeds for tomatoes, cucumbers, and something called “chard,” which I assumed was a misspelling.
All was quiet for the first week. The earth sat obedient and dull, like a well-fed dog.
Then it came. A green tendril — innocent at first — poking from the soil like a polite question.
“Ah,” I thought, “my first sprout!” and I smiled the way first-time parents do when their baby drools on them.
But the next morning, there were two. Identical. Leaf for leaf. Like horticultural twins sent to haunt my optimism.
I consulted the seed packets. None depicted this leafy interloper. No, this was not chard. This was… something else. Something… determined.
I plucked the two shoots gently, whispering, “Not today, little misfits,” and went about watering my legitimate vegetables.
The following morning: four. I blinked. Then counted again. Still four. I considered the possibility of spontaneous botanical cloning.
By Friday, there were eight. All standing defiantly in the bed like leafy protesters demanding soil rights.
I attacked with vigor. Trowel in one hand, pruning shears in the other. I yanked, I hacked, I shouted. The neighbours closed their blinds.
I thought I had won. For 36 hours, the garden was pristine.
Then came the rain. Gentle, nourishing, and — as it turns out — wildly motivational to the **** which re-emerged with a force typically reserved for military coups.
Twenty. There were twenty of them. I checked. I counted. I wept. And I Googled.
The **** had a name: Duplicaria viridis infuriata, or “The Infuriating Double-Growing ****
The article said: “Pulling triggers its survival instinct, causing it to bifurcate and repopulate with renewed spite.” It also suggested therapy.
I tried a new strategy: kindness. I whispered compliments, I played Mozart. One **** grew a third leaf in the shape of a rude gesture.
I escalated. Mulch. Then tarps. Then mulch on tarps. The weeds merely sidestepped and grew around them like smug green liquid.
My cucumbers, witnessing the drama, gave up entirely and shriveled into wrinkled sacks. The tomatoes fled underground.
I tried vinegar. The **** laughed. I tried salt. The **** made margaritas.
I called a botanist. He took one look, made the sign of the cross and ran screaming into the rhododendrons.
“You must coexist,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Accept the **** Accept the **** I’d sooner share a pillow with a wasp.
The weeds began sending runners — tendrils across the yard into my petunias, my zinnias, and even, horrifyingly, the birdbath.
Birds stopped visiting. One robin landed, made eye contact with the **** and left without even chirping.
I resorted to chemical warfare. **** killer, twice distilled and endorsed by a man with goggles and an ominous mustache. It made me cough. The **** thrived.
My neighbour, Doris, suggested goats. I borrowed one. It nibbled once and fell over. I now owe the local petting zoo a goat.
Desperate, I built a miniature fence. The **** coiled over it like a gymnast at a vine Olympics.
I tried hypnosis. “You are not a **** I whispered to its leaves. “You are a shrub. Be dormant.” It swayed condescendingly and grew larger over the next two days.
I wrote to my city council asking for a **** exorcist. They sent a pamphlet about composting and a coupon for bean seeds.
Weeks passed. I stopped planting. I stopped watering. The **** needed no help. It sustained itself out of spite.
I tried to reason with it. “We could share the garden,” I said. “Half for me, half for you.” It responded by sending a seed pod into the air, to land randomly and add to the now humungous **** farm I was somehow successfully cultivating in my yard.
At night, I dreamed of roots cracking my foundation and leaves poking through the mail slot. I dreamed you could see it from outer space, like the Great Barrier Reef...only green.
I finally gave in. I installed a sign: “Welcome to the **** Garden — Now Accepting Tours.”
Neighbours came. They marveled. “What a magnificent display of tenacity!” they said. One offered me fifty dollars for a clipping. I sold him the entire front yard.
Strangely, the moment I accepted it, the **** stopped multiplying. It simply stood there, leafy, calm… triumphant.
I now sit on my porch, drink in hand, nodding politely to passersby who point and whisper, “That’s the man who lost to a ****
And sometimes, just sometimes, I hear the leaves rustle in a breeze-less moment, and I swear I hear them chuckle.
Jul 20, 2025
Jul 20, 2025 at 12:25 PM UTC
I never intended to become a gardener. In fact, for most of my life I had been perfectly content observing plants from the comfort of a lawn chair with a cold drink and a vague sense of superiority.
But one day, inspired by a particularly smug segment on homegrown kale, I made the fatal decision to grow something — anything — with my own two hands.
I purchased gloves, a trowel, and an enormous sun hat that made me resemble an Edwardian widow in mourning for her tulips.
The backyard was modest: a patch of earth roughly the size of a pool table, previously used by raccoons for community meetings and interpretive dance.
I cleared it, hoed it, raked it, and sowed it — seeds for tomatoes, cucumbers, and something called “chard,” which I assumed was a misspelling.
All was quiet for the first week. The earth sat obedient and dull, like a well-fed dog.
Then it came. A green tendril — innocent at first — poking from the soil like a polite question.
“Ah,” I thought, “my first sprout!” and I smiled the way first-time parents do when their baby drools on them.
But the next morning, there were two. Identical. Leaf for leaf. Like horticultural twins sent to haunt my optimism.
I consulted the seed packets. None depicted this leafy interloper. No, this was not chard. This was… something else. Something… determined.
I plucked the two shoots gently, whispering, “Not today, little misfits,” and went about watering my legitimate vegetables.
The following morning: four. I blinked. Then counted again. Still four. I considered the possibility of spontaneous botanical cloning.
By Friday, there were eight. All standing defiantly in the bed like leafy protesters demanding soil rights.
I attacked with vigor. Trowel in one hand, pruning shears in the other. I yanked, I hacked, I shouted. The neighbours closed their blinds.
I thought I had won. For 36 hours, the garden was pristine.
Then came the rain. Gentle, nourishing, and — as it turns out — wildly motivational to the **** which re-emerged with a force typically reserved for military coups.
Twenty. There were twenty of them. I checked. I counted. I wept. And I Googled.
The **** had a name: Duplicaria viridis infuriata, or “The Infuriating Double-Growing ****
The article said: “Pulling triggers its survival instinct, causing it to bifurcate and repopulate with renewed spite.” It also suggested therapy.
I tried a new strategy: kindness. I whispered compliments, I played Mozart. One **** grew a third leaf in the shape of a rude gesture.
I escalated. Mulch. Then tarps. Then mulch on tarps. The weeds merely sidestepped and grew around them like smug green liquid.
My cucumbers, witnessing the drama, gave up entirely and shriveled into wrinkled sacks. The tomatoes fled underground.
I tried vinegar. The **** laughed. I tried salt. The **** made margaritas.
I called a botanist. He took one look, made the sign of the cross and ran screaming into the rhododendrons.
“You must coexist,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Accept the **** Accept the **** I’d sooner share a pillow with a wasp.
The weeds began sending runners — tendrils across the yard into my petunias, my zinnias, and even, horrifyingly, the birdbath.
Birds stopped visiting. One robin landed, made eye contact with the **** and left without even chirping.
I resorted to chemical warfare. **** killer, twice distilled and endorsed by a man with goggles and an ominous mustache. It made me cough. The **** thrived.
My neighbour, Doris, suggested goats. I borrowed one. It nibbled once and fell over. I now owe the local petting zoo a goat.
Desperate, I built a miniature fence. The **** coiled over it like a gymnast at a vine Olympics.
I tried hypnosis. “You are not a **** I whispered to its leaves. “You are a shrub. Be dormant.” It swayed condescendingly and grew larger over the next two days.
I wrote to my city council asking for a **** exorcist. They sent a pamphlet about composting and a coupon for bean seeds.
Weeks passed. I stopped planting. I stopped watering. The **** needed no help. It sustained itself out of spite.
I tried to reason with it. “We could share the garden,” I said. “Half for me, half for you.” It responded by sending a seed pod into the air, to land randomly and add to the now humungous **** farm I was somehow successfully cultivating in my yard.
At night, I dreamed of roots cracking my foundation and leaves poking through the mail slot. I dreamed you could see it from outer space, like the Great Barrier Reef...only green.
I finally gave in. I installed a sign: “Welcome to the **** Garden — Now Accepting Tours.”
Neighbours came. They marveled. “What a magnificent display of tenacity!” they said. One offered me fifty dollars for a clipping. I sold him the entire front yard.
Strangely, the moment I accepted it, the **** stopped multiplying. It simply stood there, leafy, calm… triumphant.
I now sit on my porch, drink in hand, nodding politely to passersby who point and whisper, “That’s the man who lost to a ****
And sometimes, just sometimes, I hear the leaves rustle in a breeze-less moment, and I swear I hear them chuckle.
Request permission to use this poem