(Okay, folks! Dag—Intrepid Reporter here. That's right. I'm back.)
You no doubt remember, how after that ill-conceived attempt to interview Mr. Namby Pamby—I got fired! To paraphrase Mr. Jack Nicholson. 'They couldn't stand the truth!'
(Don't rub it in—of course I haven't interviewed Mr. Nicholson. The guy gets hostile when you try to interrupt him at a basketball game!)
I been out of work now for six months. No one wants to hire a guy they suspect might have been a little weak on being right... They claim I was fired for being involved in murky circumstances... what ever that means. Ah, well...
Anyway... you readers will be happy to hear, I finally found another job.
Am I working at another TV Station as an on-the-air Reporter, making the big bucks again? Well, not exactly.
I guess I probably should tell you how my present job came my way.
I'm down at the Rescue Mission with the other less fortunate folks having a nice meal, when the good Reverend comes charging in.
"Is there anyone here, that has any experience as a Reporter?" he asked, hopefully.
"Here, Sir," I quickly replied. (I hate being so anxious... but how do I know Dan Rather isn't sitting over in the corner somewhere.) He also ran into some folks who couldn't stand the truth, either.
"Okay, Dag," the good Reverend said, "Here's the address. Write if you get the job—better yet—send us your first paycheck as a donation," he laughed.
I love a man with a sense of humor!
I hustle out of the Mission—trot off down the Avenue in that general direction.
(Okay—so I can't afford bus fare.)
After a while I'm getting winded so I slow down to a walk. I better check the directions again, I thought. What the heck is the name of this place, anyway? I wondered.
Well, would you believe... it was called the Horticultural Seed Catalog company. The name of their little newspaper was, "All Things Flowery."
I got the Job! Mrs. Violet Periwinkle—I swear—I'm not joking here—that really was her name, filled me in on my duties.
"Dag," she said, throwing me a supercilious, somewhat jaundiced look.
"We want you to go out and see a couple of crazy people... , Mr. & Mrs. Honeysuckle. They're claiming we sold them a flower that talks!
"They don't seem to mind that the flower talks; but, they do keep complaining that this flower uses... well... some pretty colorful language," she said.
"See if they'll let you interview this talking flower—and if you ever... tell anybody I ask you to do this interview... , I'm gonna deny it," she promised.
Geez! I thought. Here we go again.
About now, I'm looking for a lifeboat. I think I see the Titanic steaming toward me over the literary horizon...
I meet Mrs. Rose Honeysuckle
"Hello, are you Mrs. Honeysuckle?" I asked, giving her what I've been told is my most charming smile.
"You took long enough," she sniffed.
"And young man, my name is Rose—Rose Honeysuckle" she said, softening slightly. "You know... like the old song, "Honeysuckle Rose."
She sings a few bars off key... !
I didn't know the song. What is this, some kind of operetta? I thought. But, I'm on a roll here; so, I decided to cut right to the chase.
"Mrs. Honeysuckle," I asked, "Is it true you have a flower that talks?" I asked, as I tried to keep a straight face—hoping to get the facts.
"I do," she said, "I'll show you what flowerbed he's in—then you're on your own. I'm not going to go near that guy! He uses such terrible language. Yesterday... he called me a Slut."
"Well, that wasn't very nice," I said, sympathizing with her.
"Okay, See him over there! He's in the Daffodil bed," she said, pointing to about forty daffodils all planted close together."
"How will I know which one he is—in fact, how do I even know he is not a she?" I asked.
"Oh," she laughed, "You'll know."
I Meet Mr. Daffodil
About now, things are starting to look dubious. Very dubious! I walk over to the flowerbed full of daffodils. I'm looking down... trying to figure out which one is the notorious Mr. Daffodil when I hear this raspy unfriendly voice.
"What are you looking at? Haven't you ever seen a daffodil before? "
About now, I'm going into a state of shocked disbelief! The damned flower really does talk, I thought.
Finally, —I spot him. He's the big one right near the corner of the bed. He'd be King of the Hill, except there's no hill in that flowerbed.
"Mrs. Honeysuckle gave me permission to interview you," I said. "Is that all right?"
"That Slut... the only permission you need is mine," he grumbled.
"Excuse me, Mr. Daffodil, but I can't help wondering—why do you call Mrs. Honeysuckle a slut?" I asked.
"Have you ever seen the panties that woman wears?" he sneered, warming to his subject.
"Well... , No, of course not," I said, starting to turn red with embarrassment. "Have you?"
"Are you kidding... ," he laughed. "Why do you think I arranged to get planted right in the corner of this flowerbed?"
"I don't know, but I'll bet you're going to tell me," I replied, starting to feel a little more confident.
"It's the view... Stupid," he said, with a lecherous leer. (Folks! If you ever see a Daffodil getting ready to leer, close your eyes. You'll thank me for this!)
"Every day she hauls that darned hose out and nearly drowns us. I don't mind the water; but those wild panties she wears... well, I ended up having nightmares. Nightmares aren't good for Daffodils, you know," he said, sounding slightly peeved.
"I look up every day and all I can see is a pair of wild flowery panties blocking my view—well... trust me— it's not a pretty sight." he said, with a slight shudder.
I'm starting to detect a good amount of stress in his voice. However, I must confess, being a hot blooded guy with a healthy sex drive, I just had to ask.
"What is it about Mrs. Honeysuckle's panties that bother you so much?"
"Why... every pair of panties that woman owns... has some sort of flower pattern on them. Most Mondays... , she'll wear those white panties with the little Rose pattern. Tuesday... , it's that damn little Pansy pattern—every day... something different. What's next? Panties with Dandelions?" he said.
"Today, her panties had a Daisy pattern. Man! Daisies make me crazy!" he said.
"Sounds like you got it bad, and that ain't good," I sympathized.