The last flower died today; it was a beautiful blushing crimson and lavender and a lovely beautiful butterfly was sitting atop it, thinking, when some gentleman botanist flower-saver reached down to smash the insect, ugly fucking blasphemous thing, off the perfect pink orchid, the last flower, so he could save the the last flower but the beautiful butterfly took flight in haste and the man beat the last flower to death. It was an accident, he claimed later, doing an interview for The New York Times Magazine eating a calzone, marinara slathered and dripping from his perverse mustache. “The poor flower disintegrated, yup, just evaporated making a ‘whoosh’ sound when I tried to scare the damn butterfly away.” He said it just disappeared. It disappeared into death or orchid heaven or whatever the fuck and that was the end of the flower. But only then was there true acclaim and fame and veneration, money and prestige and praise for the flower-saver’s. Only after the last orchid was smashed to death did anyone pay any attention to the flower-savers’ flower saving efforts!
GO FLOWER-SAVERS! HOO-RAH!