I have a green thumb in as much as that stuff that grows on leftovers is green right before I throw it out. I'm tempted to take some photos of the pretty green stuff with a white fuzz on top covering what was once leftover chili, but after several weeks of resting peacefully in the cool dark cave of my refrigerator, it has evolved into some Antarctic form of multi-celled life. Were this new life form unleashed about an unsuspecting ecosystem, I suspect strongly that the "March of The Penguins" would become the "Run Screaming from the Ice Shelf of the Penguins", and all that would remain would be a faint odd scent of Jalapenos and herrings. Eventually, the entire Southern Continent would be covered with a pretty green carpet-like covering. What would evolve from this is not known to me, but I am almost certain anything attempting to prey upon it would have to have a very strong digestive system. Global warming wouldn't have a chance to affect the ice pack once this biomass got cranked up. Torrents of melted water would also run screaming from thousand-year-old glaciers but trust me, that wouldn't be nearly enough.
Okay, now all this may be fascinating to you as a reader, but I have yet to convince any woman I have ever dated it's a good reason to keep the stuff around. Anytime a woman sits down with you, turns off the television, looks you in the eye and says, "We have to talk." What she actually means is "I am going to talk, you are going to listen, and then you'll agree with what I've said." The Pretty Green Life Form, also known as the PGLF has many times met an untimely end to its evolutionary run due to the female influence on its life. In the defense of the female influence, I once helped clean out the apartment of a friend, blackmailed into by his future wife and his sister, and the things we found in that apartment would frighten you. One of the most disgusting items was a …nevermind, I won't go there.
The worst thing that has ever happened with the PGLF was back when I was living in a rat hole apartment with another professional drinker. He had dedicated some time to preparing the object of his affection a truly nice dinner, with clean silverware made of something other than plastic, and part of that involved making some sort of cold rice dish he stored in the refrigerator. The woman in question, who was going to help put the final touches on the meal, pulled the wrong Tupperware bowl out of the icebox and had actually spooned out a glob of PGLF before getting a whiff of its unique breath. I came in after the fact, a few hours later, stoned out of my natural mind on tequila. The tequila cleared out enough for me to realize there was an upset women, I had caused the upset, and the PGLF had taken a premature, untimely, and ultimately disappointing flight from the balcony, and onto the concrete patio below. Alas Evolution! Not enough generations had passed, though many obviously had, and the PGLF had not developed the power of flight! Alas! Alas! Worse, even though the tequila had cleared a path for me to realize that the woman was upset, that I had caused it, and what had caused it, the tequila did not clear enough for me to give a damn about any of this. As Ron White once said, " I had the right to remain silent, I just didn't have the ability."
When I got up the next day, and by the time I had risen lunch had been served and was over in many places, my roommate was already to the point to find the whole ordeal quite funny. We went outside to inspect the PGLF and discovered that it had landed in a similar pattern of a large insect hitting a windshield at one hundred miles an hour. Moreover, the creative mass by which the PGLF had spawned apparently had been, at one point in time, spaghetti. The resulting fermentation process, untimely flight, and awkwardly harsh landing on concrete, had left not only one of the most distinctive aroma known to humankind, but a usually weird looking impact.
Okay, here's the scene: It's near Roswell New Mexico, 1947, and you've just wandered up on the crash site of a UFO. At least one alien has been ejected from the UFO, has fallen several thousand feet, and landed very hard. Moreover, these aliens, instead of having nine yards of intestines, have ten times that much.
That's what it looked like.
There was a guy who lived downstairs from us who was in training to become a professional drinker. He lived with a woman who didn't like his drinking but didn't oppose it either. She was an artist of sorts and they came to inspect the PGLF. They had both assumed a dog had thrown up, and both were perplexed as to the origin of the PGLF. The guy, however, agreed the impacted biomass did indeed look alien. The artist of sorts decided to take photos of it, but thought it needed a little color first. She spray pained the PGLF red, which made it a PRLF. We scrapped the PRLF up with a shovel and tossed it into the dumpster, which caused eight rats to run squeaking from the container, and killing three more outright.
What we had left was an odd-looking spray paint outline crime scene looking silhouette of a PGLF. I swear to you, the thing looked like a murdered paramecium. Someone stole some police tape and roped off a small area around it. The woman who had launched the PGLF from the kitchen door of the balcony thought none of this humorous in the least, and scolded the artist of sorts about encouraging us men into such behavior. The artist of sorts, open the refrigerator in her own apartment to reveal an ancient tomb of some leftover supper. PGLF is a trademark of all our kind, the gesture seemed to say, and one day, perhaps our misbegotten offspring will evolve to open that door on their own.