Scorpio Humor – Trouble on the Farm

bigstock Happy Couple 41619554 300x214 Scorpio Humor – Trouble on the Farm

Scorpio – The Master of Relationships – At Least According to Me

Most people seem to enjoy my humor so I decided to include a little snippet each Monday. Most of this humor is based upon real life incidents with Linda and me but are slightly exaggerated. You may see a little of my Scorpio CType and Linda’s Sagittarius CType here. You may also see a little of your relationships in these little bites of levity. Enjoy and I hope these brighten your Monday’s in some small way.

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Linda and I, as a couple, have decided that we will eat healthy. We love fresh organic, locally grown tomatoes in our summer salads. Each summer I plant three tomato plants in a large round planter box and tend them with a lot of TLC. Because plants love to be talked to, I make it a point each day to relay to them my gratitude for their forthcoming bounty. I never use pesticides or chemical fertilizers, only natural means of caring for my little green buddies.

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed something suspicious. There were holes and missing edges in many of the leaves. I concluded that something might be eating at my little tomato people. I used a natural pesticide recommended on the Internet, a warm Crisco spray. Some days later brown spots started showing up. I asked the plants what now might be their problem. They intuited back to me that “a fungus is among us.” Staying natural, I liberally applied Desenex powder. Nothing seemed to help. Whatever was eating the plants kept munching away and the fungus spread everywhere. I tersely inquired of the now brownish three stooges of TomatoLand just what their problem might be. “WATER. WE NEED WATER,” they cried out. I remembered reading on the Internet that plants need water. I wondered if that might apply to tomatoes, too. To be safe, I decided to water the three miserable malcontents. I put the hose in the planter box, tying it to the plants so it wouldn’t fall out of the planter box. Then, to save watering time, I turned the water on high and drove to Tijuana for a couple of beers.

When I returned the next day, I was shocked at the mess the plants had made. Evidently, the stooges had forsaken their job to hold the thrashing hose and floated out of the planter box on a wave of muddy slurry. The box itself was now devoid of most of the natural soil I had painstakingly gathered from vacant lot down at the refinery. I had had enough. I screamed a few choice epitaphs at Moe, Larry and Curly and unceremoniously jammed them into a black plastic trash bag and tossed it over the fence into our cranky neighbor’s yard. I heard Linda’s car pull into the driveway. My six cents kicked in. I could smell trouble.

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