Listen. In this nation I have the right to garden however I please. A freedom, even. And you know what? You know how I like to garden? Perversely. Inappropriately. Unnecessarily graphic with a dash of grotesque debauchery. I'm the Caligula of horticulture, I'm Better Homes and Gardens' worst nightmare. I'm the type of yard work your parents don't want you to know about. No gloves, no little baby shovel things, just me, this one penis-shaped bush and the Budweiser Platinum I've been nursing all afternoon. And you're just going to have to deal with that.
Want me to trim it, cut it down? Want me to castrate my yard? Want me to sell out and grow a garden the way you drive that Ford Focus? No way. Not going to happen. First the phallic shrubbery, next you'll be telling me my ornamental grasses are too violent or that I have to grow Hitler Hedges or some freaky stuff like that. I know how you all work, so I'll tell you what I told my wife before she filed the divorce. I said, "Lady, you think I can control this?" And while we weren't talking about gardening, the same rules apply. You can't dictate life, dude, can't control hedges.
Look. You have any idea how famous this bush is, anyway? How much press it's gotten? Check this piece out. Man, think outside of your thick skull and see how this bush affects the world, how much it means to this neighborhood. Hell, aside from the bologna packaging plant, this bush is all this town has. If we get a moist spring, it could be the largest phallic bush north of the Mason-Dixon Line. And you want me to cut it down? This bush is, literally, all you have. Or maybe figuratively. Or maybe literally all I have. I don't know anymore.
And what about me? Did you even stop and ask yourself how I might feel about the phallic bush? Well, I love it! My dad planted it and right before he died he told me to grow the biggest bush erection, then he went on that shooting rampage. Everywhere I go people see me and say, "Dude, are you the dude with the dad and the bushes that look like privates?" And I don't say a thing, I just point to my shirt and they know that yes I am that very same dude they thought. If you cut down this bush you're pretty much rendering my entire life meaningless while also desecrating my father's last wish before the shooting rampage.
You're also ruining all my craigslist ads. Every masseuse within 50 miles will be stuck searching for the generous man living beside the shrub shlong. Will they find me and give me the deep-muscle massages the free health center suggested to prevent my legs from hardening into immobile planks? I doubt it. I'll probably petrify in my bed, looking out the window at my shrub, watching it wither and die in the sun while you sip lemonade like the sick freak you are.
So, sure, I can't have a wife, a steady job or legs functional for anything other than producing blood clots. I can't have a father and no matter how hard I try I can't get the smell of bologna out of my bed sheets, but man oh man I can have some phallic bush. I will have some phallic bush.
And you can't stop me. By law. I've skimmed this state's constitution and it says all sorts of crazy stuff about my rights. Right between the parts about guns and marriage between and dude and a chick there's something and it agrees with my Genital Hedge and our Founding Fathers.
And I'm not stopping there. I'm expanding, dude. What's next? Tomatoes, no; Fruits and veggies, I laugh. Here's a clue. More phallic plants. Different sizes, types, girths. You'd flip if you saw what I'm doing with bamboo at this very moment.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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