Blooming idiots

I love flowers.  Not as much as chocolate, granted, but there is something particularly beautiful about flowers in bloom.  Nothing else in nature or of man is nearly as striking, as sublime, as just plain pretty as a flower.  Yesterday I was given a small bouquet from the parents of one of my kids at work.  (In case you didn't know, this week was the Week of the Young Child, and Thursday was "Appreciate Your Educator" Day. This ranks among my favorite holidays EVER.)  You can imagine how I fawned and cooed over the blooms, how effusively I thanked the family.

Imagine all you want, that ain't how it went.

Actually, I get really awkward when given cut flowers.  Especially when it's done in a platonic fashion.  Yes, I do love flowers; and no, I'm not that picky over what kind and their meanings and such--although floriography* is some interesting stuff.  But do you know what flowers are?

Flowers are a plant's sex organs.  Seriously.  Flowers are a different shape and color from the rest of their plant, in order to attract pollinating insects.  Rather similar to the way certain women wear strategically placed bits of bright cloth to attract, well, pollinators.  (Both men and mindless drones are attracted to big, bright things they bounce when they touch them.  Think about that for a sec...)

I kept the flowers, though.  It would have been really rude not to.  I just made sure that the decaying sexual members of another living organism were put in a place where I won't have to see them much.  Someplace like my mum's kitchen.

Seriously, guys.  Try giving her a live plant next time.  That way, instead of saying "When I think of you, I think of putrefying sex organs,"  you say something more like "When I think of you, I think of lush, fruitful sex organs, and that procreation can be quite beautiful.  And you smell nice."  Which of these do you think she'll prefer?

 

*Check this out:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Language_of_flowers