The Garden

“Anyway,” says I, “even if you do remember to scrub the begonias, chances are some weasel is going to kick dirt on them in the middle of the night.”

“I don't understand what you're talking about,” says he.

“I'm talking about the futility of laundering your garden,” says I. “Quite aside from the deleterious effects of detergent on the poor shrubberies, the dirt-laden character of the environment is inconducive to maintenance of a cleanly state. Forget the weasels. A good strong wind will do as much harm.”

“Now I understand what you're talking about, but I think you're nuts,” says he.

Confound the insolence, thought I, speechless with anger. Anticipating that space aliens would momentarily burst through the kitchen door and take us captive, rendering this exchange moot, I held my peace. A long moment passed, but no aliens appeared. Luckily, a mighty earthquake struck, the ground split in two underneath the house, and we were swallowed up into oblivion, thus saving the day.