A Letter to the Degenerate Fuckwit that Stole My Lilacs

Dear Thieving Loser Stupid Head,

Did you watch my husband putting those pretty baby lilac plants in for me this past weekend? Did you have some rejected objection to us beautifying the roadside by planting 4 feet from where (I can only assume) you walked past? Did you know that it would've been smarter to kype the more established bushes, as they cost $25.00 a pop and can't be purchased in the Twin Cities as opposed to the ones you stole (which can be purchased at any Walmart for $5.50 each?) Fuck, get your own damn lilacs!

Far be it from me to deny that all gardeners are prone to a little...um, moral flexibility when it comes to swiping a few bulbils or a scape off of a lily, or even plucking a sprig of jade or a wee chick from a houseleek, but one doesn't dig up and cart off the whole damn plant mere hours after it's been planted in a stranger's yard. Finding the gaping black holes glistening like wounds in the landscape when we took the garbage out last night had my husband and I returning to the house in silence, mind-whacked, thinking "Who does that?!"

I'll leave you with this:

May your thumb turn black (and by that I do not mean, "May your plants die." I mean, "May your thumb develop a virulent necrosis that blackens and shrivels your thumb into a noxious black stump, and may the rotting flesh spread over your entire hand, up your arm and over your shoulder, flowing ever upward until it melts your features and you die screaming, 'What a world, what a world! Who would've thought that a good little girl like you could destroy my beautiful wickedness?!'" Savvy?

When you reach the pearly gates, may you be met by St. Fiacre (the patron saint of gardening, you fucking heathen) and may that misogynist saint curl his lip and pull a lever like Izma in The Emperor's New Groove that sends you straight to hell where a thousand demons wait to carve out your soul with dull spoons, you bastard.

I am going to replant my lilacs...oh yes, I am... and I've a mind to sit outside in the dark on the off chance that you're dumb enough to try to steal from me again. Because I would love to beat you to death with my mag lite. Because I hate you...and my little dog hates you, too.

~ Shangrila