Chuck Norris takes a rock and it turns into a green salad.
I eat a lot of spinach, plus various lettuce and mystery leaves when the garden is verdant. They’re high in iron.
Lettuce enjoy salads..
I thought it was lettuce beet grapefruit for leafy greens.
Alcohol attends Chuck Norris Anonymous meetings.
"Ceterum censeo Islam esse delendam."
Garde la Foi, mes amis! Nous nous sommes les sauveurs de la République! Maintenant et Toujours!
(Keep the Faith, my friends! We are the saviors of the Republic! Now and Forever!)
LonePalm, le Républicain du verre cassé (The Broken Glass Republican)
Life in the Slaw Lane
by Kip Addotta
It was Cucumber the first; summer was over. I had just spinached a long day and I was bushelled. I’m the kind of guy that works hard for his celery, and I don’t mind telling you I was feeling a bit wilted. But I didn’t carrot all, ‘cause otherwise things were vine. I try never to depairagus, and I don’t sweat the truffles. I’m outstanding in my field, and I know that something good will turnip eventually. A bunch of things were going grape, and soon I’d be top banana — at least that’s my peeling. But that’s enough corn. Lend me your ear, and lettuce continue.
After dressing, I stalked over to the grain station. I got there just in lime to catch the nine-elemon as it plowed toward the core of Appleton, a lentil more than a melon-and-a-half yeast of Cloveland. No-one got off at Zucchini, so we continued on our rute ta Bega. Passing my usual stop, I got Off a’ Cado. I hailed a passing yellow cabbage and told the driver to cart me off to Brocklyn. I was going to meet my brother across from the egg plant, where he had a job at the Saffron station {ding, ding}, pumpkin gas.
As soon as I saw his face, I knew he was in a yam. He told me his wife had been raising cane. Her name was Peaches — a soiled but radishing beauty with huge gourds; my brother had always been a chest nut. But I could never figure out why she picked him. He was a skinny little string bean who’d always suffered from cerebral parsley. It was in our roots. Sure we had tried to weed it out, but the problem still romained. He was used to having a tough row to hoe, but it irrigated me to see Artie choke, and it bothered my brother to see his marriage go to seed.
Like most mapled [may-poled?] couples they had a lot of growing to do. Sure, they’d sown their wild oats, but just barley, if you peas. Finally, Peaches had given him an ultomato. She said, “I’m hip to your chive, and if you don’t stop smoking that herb, I’m going to leaf you for Basil, you fruit!” He said he didn’t realize it had kumquat so far. Onion other hand, even though Peaches could be the pits, I knew she’d never call the fuzz.
So I said, “Hay, we’re not farm from the Mush Room. Let’s walk over.”
He said, “That’s a very rice place. That’s the same little bar where alfalfa my wife!”
When we got there, I pulled up a cherry and tried to Produce small talk. I told him I hadn’t seen Olive, not since I shelled off for a trip to Macadamia, when I told her we can’t eloupe; the thyme just wasn’t ripe. She knew what I mint.
When we left the Mush Room, we were pretty well juiced. I told Arti to say hello to the Boys in Berry, and that I’d orange to see him another time.
Well, it all came out in the morning peppers: Arti caught Peaches that night with Basil, and Arti beat Basil bad, leaving him with two beautiful achers. Peaches? She was found in the garden. She’d been . . . pruned.
Well, my little story is okra now, Maybe it’s small potatoes. Me, Idaho. My name? Wheat. My friends call me Kernel. And that’s life in the slaw lane.
It’s a garden out there!