Several people have stopped by my cube today to tell me my ficus tree looks awful and when am I going to get rid of it.
Did anyone bring it chicken noodle soup?
Did anyone offer to drive it to the hospital?
Has anyone asked me if I've considered grief counseling?
No. They walk by and they make their callous comments and they leave me here, with my grey tree, shrunken and feeble, dropping its leaves one by one.
The world is a cold and unfeeling place, my friends.
All the more so because Buddy Lewis has not been chosen as the next Wandering Golfer. I thumb my nose at Fine Living and all who are associated therein.
3 comments:
I had a ficus once. Once. Before I shipped Henry (he came with theat name) off to be nurtured by another, someone recommended bat manure as the remedy to all that ailed it. I never tried it. Maybe your colleagues and bring some by if they're so concerned.
Alas, it is truly too late for my Henry. He has gone to that great corporate dumpster in the back alley - er, sky.
I think I am just going to start dropping the words "bat manure" into casual conversation, just for kicks.
Ah, the circle of life...
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