but nooo no no no. the box cutter is my colleague, my ally, my friend. you know what is truly bloodthirsty in a print & signage shop? literally Anything Else that's able to cut but not supposed to. cardboard, sheets of plastic, the humble paper of course, corrugated polypropylene, aluminum composite sheets - i nicked myself on a sheet of magnetic material today?? it bled. kinda profusely.

basically:

box cutter: a trusty companion, might hurt you if you handle it wrong, but that's understandable

1.) Do you think OP would allow the French near their posts? Why or why not?

2.) Does translating the post add any additional humor? If so, how?

3.) Would another language affect your chances of survival?

3.) Are you in danger?

1.) Quelque chose me fait dire que non.

2.) Le français n'est-il pas une vaste blague ?

3.) Je ne crois pas, jusque là, l'anglais n'a que des effets secondaires minimes sur ma santé.

3.) Apparement.

spin this wheel to see your pokemon type

spin this one to see how you'll look like

Closest match: Homo sapiens genome assembly, chromosome: contig-504 Common name: Common Human

i think he said it so i'd be more morally okay with fishing? i actually dont remember the context.

point was, he told me this, and he understimated (by a very large margin) how much i liked worms. i was a worm boy. very wormy. and after hearing that, i went home, and i dug through the garden, flipped over every rock, did everything i could to gather as many worms as i could, and then i uh.

i cut them all in half. every worm i could find. all of them. with scissors.

i then took this pile of split worms, and i put them in a box with a bit of lettuce and some water and stuff and went to bed expecting to double my worms overnight. i have math autism, so i had a vague understanding that if i did this just a few times in a row, i would eventually have a completely unreasonable amount of worms.

i was very excited to become this plane's worm emperor.

(i think i was...six?)

anyway, i did not become the inheritor of the worm crown. i instead woke up to a box of dead worms and cried. a lot. i got diagnosed with panic attacks as a teenager, but i think i had them as a kid, i just had no idea what they were. i was kind of processing that a.) i had killed what i had assumed was every single worm in my yard, and thus would have no more worms, and b). i was going to like, worm hell.

(six year babylon spent a lot of time worrying about god.)

so i kind of freaked out, and i climbed a tree, because god can only smite you if you're touching the ground (?) and i sat up there mostly inconsolable until my mom came out and asked, hey, what's up? what happened?

so i explained to her that i had killed all of the worms, forever, and was also Damned, and she took me to the compost pile, and we dug for all of five seconds and found like twenty more worms.

the compost pile was full of worms.

and she told me that a). there were more worms, and we could put them back under rocks and stuff and recolonize our yard and b). that one day, i would die, and i would go to heaven, and i would be able to talk to the worms, and i would be able to tell them all that i was very sorry, and that i killed them on accident out of excessive Love, and that they would forgive me, because worms have six hearts and no malice.

at that point, i think i was sixty percent tear-snot by weight, and i had no choice but to gather enough worms that i could hug them. which my mom helped with. and then after that she helped me put some worms back under each rock.

and for my epilogue: i spent a significant portion of my childhood in trees. and for many years after, even when my mom didnt know i was watching, i would catch her giving the space under the rocks a light spritz with the hose. not because she loved worms.

Sadly if you didn't know this was going on, you missed them giving away retopoflow 3 yesterday, but there's 9 more days of free stuff! If you have an itch for blender and have never picked it up, you might want to consider making an account just to claim stuff you can use eventually.

This looks like oilseed rape, a crop plant that provides a bright yellow field of flowers. The flowers become the seeds that are pressed to make a cheap and common cooking oil. Rapeseed is considered a mildly unattractive name so it was rebranded as “canola,” thus the product of oilseed rape is canola oil. Still, a field of these yellow flowers is somewhat awkwardly called a field of rape. The heavy, sweet scent hovers for miles. The United States Canola Association, a lobby professional advocate for the plant , says “the small yellow flowers [also] beautify the environment,” as they try to market something that doesn’t need much marketing.

Rapeseed is hot at the moment - carrying a heavy load. The obviously competitive plant-based oils at the moment - olive oil and sunflower oil - are both embroiled in geopolitics. Sunflower oil was dominated in global production by Ukraine, currently under invasion, and olive oil - a key export of Palestine, and the European trees smashed hard in recent years by the droughts - is a tricky product that relies on ancient little olive trees growing in climate-change-affected deserts in years of unprecedented bad weather. It takes years for an olive tree to make a single olive. So geopolitically, people are clinging a bit to rapeseed - a sturdy and unbothered workhorse of the temperate climates.

Rapeseed’s a brassica, part of the same family as those shape-shifting sisters who are all Basically The Same Plant: broccoli, cabbage, mizuna, pak choi, turnip, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts - let any of those sisters go over, and they’ll all develop the same cheerful yellow flowers. Oilseed rape has an instant and obvious kinship with them. The thick, dusty slightly blueish color to the fat juicy stem and the broad leaves on the bottom giving way to the smaller ones along the distinctive stalk - you can ID a brassica from just a few characters!

Brassicas, most amusingly, like hard going. One wild ancestral brassica, to whom the broccoli sisters strive to return, is Wild Cabbage - it likes to live on rocky sea cliffs, growing on rocks and battered by salt; sea kales, another offshoot of the family, like to grow on beaches. If you see plants growing on a beach, drinking saltwater and digging their roots into sand and rocks, they’re brassicas - that’s it - that is how they like it. It’s completely mad! but it works for them! Other plants probably make memes about brassicas: choosing what is (to plants) a barren alien landscape, whipped by toxic winds, drinking poison, gnawing sustenance from actual sand - and then being so vigorous and juicy, and carefully constructing a crown of yellow flowers. Absolutely wild!

Rapeseed, therefore, scorns the idea that it has to be kept locked up in a comfortable field and farmed. When it leaves its fields and starts wandering, it is called an “escape” - a cultivated plant that’s gotten away. Escaped rapeseed yearns for the beach, or at the very least, the romantic dusty road. It usually lives alongside roads, on waste ground, and in other places where it can find gravel: as you can see, this includes perching jauntily in the gravel of train tracks. Wind? Rocks? Trains? Are you kidding? This is not adversity to oilseed rape. This is what it leaves home for. It’s going to the beach. It’s LEAVING. Farewell, suckers.

In general, people do not actually like this.

Escapes aren’t quite invasive - although that term itself is a little tricky; if the photo is taken in Europe, an escaped brassica has every right to say that it’s had ten thousand years of being perfectly native - but they’re still not-really-wild and would-you-please-stop. An escaped food crop is not the cute underdog kind of weed, not the political lapel pin kind of weed, not the oh-look-it’s-thriving-in-adversity-feeding-the-bees.

Environmentalists don’t want them. They’re not weeds in the sense of Daddy-hated-the-pretty-dandelions-in-the-lawn-wasn’t-Daddy-mean, they’re weeds in the sense of one-step-further-out-of-place-and-you’re-spoiling-the-whole-ecosystem-bucko. The politics of invasiveness hold a finger over the button that says “condemn,” and the moment the rapeseed escape leaves the undisputed unwanted waste ground, it becomes a weed in the sense of deleted-for-the-greater-good. As long as they’re in the waste ground that nobody wants, it’s fine - but watch out! The tolerance is very conditional.

But is it (politically) weed, (politically) flower? I’m always interested in the political projections we put onto plants. This, to me, is funny, like a cow at IKEA; a fancy breed of chicken ordering a drink at a bar. Somebody escaped the grind. Somebody is off to the beach. Farm boy escaping to the bright lights over here. How are you going to keep them down on the farm when they’ve seen gay Paree! It isn’t starving or struggling baby, that’s oilseed rape seeking enrichment! Don’t feel bad for it! It’s escaped! It likes this shit! It’ll be shot down by farmers or environmentalists alike - you’re it’s only friend. Don’t tattle on it, it’s not meant to be here, it barely even Feeds the Bees. It’s taking the midnight train going anywhere!

That’s no delicate flower! That’s a brassica! They’re from the EQUIVALENT OF THE MOON. That’s one of the oldest plant allies we have! And not even because they taste particularly good (debatable) just because we can’t stop them and it’s better to be allies than victims, really. It’s awfully pretty and funny to be flowering (love that for it) but it isn’t precisely in adversity, the mad bastard! it’s about as uncomfortable there as a cottagecore influencer.

That’s no weed! It ain’t the wild! That’s a purebred domestic farmchild with ten thousand of years of genetic engineering behind it! It’s more domesticated than YOU are. And it’s going on holiday. Becoming ungovernable.

It could be a villain! We don’t know! The seeds from that plant - which are happening because it was fit enough to flower- just might get on a train that takes them to INVADE A NEW ECOSYSTEM bahahahahaha! What matters is going on your WAY.