That’s one down and two to go.
Of course this next one is the big enchilada, or should we say the big poinsettia: Christmas. By the way,the poinsettia is your biggest and most famous Christmas flower and it’s kind of weird that it should be; it’s not like it’s from the North Pole or anywhere Christmas-y. It gets its name from the first U.S. minister to Mexico, Joel R. Poinsett, who brought it back in the early nineteenth century. And it looks like they’re here to stay unless the president’s DACA deal is a lot more comprehensive than it’s billed to be.
They (poinsettias) are pretty cool in a red and green sort of way, which coloring is achieved, at least in part, by keeping them in the dark for the better part of a few weeks, exposing them to light for a little while each day. This is supposed to bamboozle them into turning colors. It’s not quite the “mushroom” treatment (keep ‘em in the dark & feed ‘em a lot of, er, manure) but it’s close.
Anyway, this is what Mrs. Idler was going on about when we discovered them littered all over some of the more strategic areas of the Idler’s underground bunker and command center. Will light from the television interfere with their development? How about cigar smoke? Are there any other types of emanations or exudations that might prove harmful? Does the Idler give a flowerpot?
Because this type of aggression will not stand, man. Indeed it must be met with firm resolve n at. What if we went up to a certain someone’s sewing room and dropped onion sets all over the bobbins or doilies or whatever all that stuff is? Or what if we filled up the washing machine with ice and beer and replaced all the cookbooks with Field & Stream and Mad magazine? What’s that? We wouldn’t have a square meal or clean clothes? Well, ha-ha, we’ll just have to see about that. (Really? No more meals?)
Holidays are nice and everything, but they do have the unfortunate effect of interrupting your routine. Watch the dog around the holidays and you’ll see what we mean. He’ll come in from his walk one day and head for that spot where the light comes in through the sliding patio door and warms up the carpet. Except he won’t be able to plop down there because a Christmas tree will have acquired the acreage by eminent domain or something. Then people will wonder why he, um, irrigates the tree when nobody’s looking.
Same deal with your average idler. He comes home from a hard day at the factory, office, happy hour or what have you, plops down in his recliner, switches on the tube and suddenly he’s staring through foliage. Did I mistakenly wander into a fern bar?, he wonders. No, it’s just his spouse attempting to pull the botanical wool over the eyes of some unsuspecting immigrant flower. Wonder what would happen if they were watered with some cold cerveza? Stay thirsty, mis amigos.
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And now for this week’s installment of “Hey Weiner!” in which we respond to the disgraced ex-Congressman’s appeal for pen-pals while incarcerated by passing along readers’ correspondence.
Hey Weiner: What’s the deal with holidays in the joint? Does each prison gang have its own tree? Got a wreath on the bars or anything?
Weiner: It’s not that festive.
Hey Weiner: Mistletoe?
Weiner: Don’t remind me.
Hey Weiner: Get any tats? C’mon, tell the truth, you can’t get sent up without getting a prison tat.
Weiner: “Born to sext” It’s, uh, it’s not that visible.
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