Listen up, clown — floral ambiance of this tenor doesn’t come flying down the pike every fucking Sunday, OK? You want goddamn lush, delicate sprays that summon nostalgic anamneses of childhood gardens? Because hey, we got that shit covered. Maybe if you weren’t so existentially equivocal about aesthetically arranged bouquets you’d be the fuck outta here already. You get my drift, chuckle-fuck? What, you think just any fucking bozo vends delicate pedicels undergirding near-lascivious stamens like this shit here? For Christ’s fucking sake. OK. That’s better. Now we’re talking. Would you prefer these gorgeous blossoms enwrapped in fuchsia tissue and complimentarily beribboned with a silken bandeau, or you gonna carry them outta here like they just fell out of your asshole two minutes ago?

By Joe Lichtblau