Yesterday evening I found myself embroiled in a conversation of politics with a patch of petunias in full bloom. Of course, I use the word “conversation” lightly; it was more of a one-sided ranting session than an actual exchange of opinions and ideas.

It all started innocently enough — I simply asked its opinion as to the shape of future Congressional fiscal policy. I should have known better, of course. I meant only to make conversation, but that was the only invitation it needed to spout every misguided opinion it had ever formed over the course of its long days in the sun.

The affair began with a fifteen minute post-modern neo-Luddite diatribe, cursing everything from middle school science education to genetically modified organisms. Scarcely even pausing for breath and preventing me from getting in a comment (edgewise), it when went further to touch on Marxism, anarchist rhetoric, McCarthy-era social paranoia, and a surprising anti-Semitic streak. Sick of this mix of ideological crap after a full hour, I turned my back and walked away. The petunia was still talking when I walked out of earshot — it just wouldn’t shut up.

This is why I don’t ask flowers for their opinions. Hell.