Satire
Listen up, Poindexters of the World. I don’t care how many Nobel Prizes you’ve won for string theory, CRISPR, or inventing a better paperclip—I have a real problem that actually matters to real people. And no, it’s not climate change, TikTok algorithms, or whether AI can feel sad.
It’s rocks. In. My. Garden.
Those demon-possessed geological freeloaders are multiplying faster than a college feminist studies major’s pronouns. I cleared them out last year. I pulled, I dug, I raked. I even prayed. But like a zombie apocalypse in a gravel pit, they came back. More. Bigger. Sharper. Pointier. One of them tried to mug me with a stick. I think they’re unionizing.
Now I’ve had it. I want glyphosate for rocks. Or maybe Perticide™—you know, to kill “perturbations of geology.” You people figured out how to split atoms and create synthetic meat from lab-barf. You built a Hadron Collider just to make particles kiss. Cute. But I’m still out here like a medieval serf with a shovel fighting boulders in a patch of dirt I call my “garden.”
What’s the point of your Ivy League degrees if I still have to bend over and remove sediment by hand? What are all your grant dollars doing? Mapping the mating rituals of bisexual tree frogs? Good. While you’re at it, tell those frogs to pick up a rake and help.
Let me break it down for you in terms your double-masked Tesla-driving brains can handle:
• You’ve got 3 months.
• I want a spray bottle.
• I want it to say “MELT ROCKS” in bold letters.
• And I want a warning label that says, “Will end small countries if misused.”
If Monsanto and DuPont had a baby and raised it on steroids and Mountain Dew, that’s the level of corporate evil I need. Make it happen, nerds. And none of that “this violates the laws of nature” garbage. You violated the laws of God, nature, and decency when you invented pineapple on pizza. So don’t act like this is where you draw the line.
This is your Manhattan Project now.
Make. My. Garden. Soft.
Planting season is coming. And if I see even one new rock this year, I’m showing up at your lab with a five-gallon bucket of beer and ice and a lawn chair. I’ll wait.
Tick tock, times wasting Mr. science. You’re wasting daylight.
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