Published on May 12th, 2015 | by Richard Black0
An Open Letter to Mother Nature (For the Sake of My Daughter)
Dearest Mother Nature,
I’m a long time fan and first time writer. Most of the time I love your work. Daisies are really just the best and I really like what you’ve been doing with butterflies for some time. Nipples on men are also a great touch and kudos to you for developing the clitoris.
For the most part I don’t have a problem with your work as long as the temperature remains around 70 something degrees and humidity is less than that of my armpit. Unfortunately I live in Missouri and these conditions only exist for about two weeks out of the year but that’s my problem. I can’t afford to live in California. I’ve accepted that fact.
You’ve got a tough gig and one that is almost Sisyphean in scope. I get that. It can’t be easy to keep things green and life bounding about when some idiot keeps harpooning whales and spraying Round Up everywhere. Your job isn’t easy but we really need to talk about how you go about Spring.
I like the season. I really do. Mostly. The days continue to lengthen, there’s enough daylight to keep me from turning on every single light in my home at five in the evening, birds begin to chirp in the morning, I can see the world literally burst forth in life but it’s the whole “bursting” thing that I take issue with.
T.S. Elliot once wrote that April is the cruelest month and that might be so but May is, without question, the most disgusting. Promiscuity abounds and I’m generally all right with that as long as it’s not my wife or my daughter. There’s really nothing funnier than watching a squirrel frenetically pump away at the hindquarters of another squirrel or a fence post or a potted plant or the neighbors’ Labrador retriever or… well you get the idea.
The animals in heat I can handle. It’s the plants that are the cause of most of my concern. Not all of them mind you. I’m a big fan of flowers. They look pretty and are fairly discreet when it comes to propagation. Their beautiful pink petals unfold to await the dainty feet of a bee or delicate tongue of a hummingbird that fumbles around its private parts like some college kid going down on a girl for the first time. It’s all quite cute in it’s own way.
Forgive me for mentioning that you are also astounding promiscuous, at least when it comes to bees and bats and such who are well known whores of the animal world. Despite all of the propaganda about “when you let a hummingbird trample on your sexy parts you are being with all of the other lady parts with which that hummingbird has violated” flowers haven’t changed their tune. They can’t and that’s because they are fucking flowers.
I was going somewhere with this.
Ohh yes. To return to my original gripe we need to talk about pollen, specifically those grasses and trees that spew their seed like a four toothed hick on a meth high with a laptop full o’ porn. I’m not just bringing this up because I’m allergic to pollen or find cleaning my front porch after an oak tree gang bang to be disgusting. I’m bringing this activity to your attention because it’s, quite frankly, immoral.
While rooted in evolution this sort of behavior is really just uncalled for. If I were to spread my sperm in the same fashion and dangled my fifteen hundred penises about before exploding in an orgiastic display that covered everything within a few blocks with semen I would, most likely, be arrested. I’d also be pretty dehydrated but that’s really a secondary concern.
This is where you come into it Mother Nature. I’ve got no one else to bring this issue to. I suppose I could ask Monsanto for help but their record on dealing with this sort of thing is decidedly checkered. Instead I wanted to go straight to the top of the food chain and approach the woman in charge for the sake of my daughter’s innocence.
Darcy is almost five and I’ve been staving off “The Talk” about her origins and sex for the past three years. However, as she ages and becomes more aware it’s becoming increasingly difficult to avoid this subject when she interrupts the wife and I during our evening nuptial, a romp in a gas station restroom or during Spring as nature humps itself with wild abandon.
Darcy has already asked me about what all the yellow stuff is all over the porch, the chairs, the table, the floor, the windowsills and really everything else in our neighborhood and I’m running out of polite cliches.
I suppose I could tell my daughter that it’s a seed but that’s really not true. I could resort to the age old cliche about how this sort of thing happens when a daddy Post Oak Tree tries to love a lot of other Mommy Post Oak trees or even itself in a very special way but I’d rather keep polyamory and masturbation out of Darcy’s lexicon for as long as possible.
As a stop gap measure I’ve resorted to putting on Barry White’s Greatest Hits when Darcy gets inquisitive. It’s a Zen Buddhist I-Hope-My-Daughter-Can-Learn-About-Sex through osmosis approach to learning I’m trying out but so far it’s been somewhat fruitless and I’m at my wits end. Instead of broaching the topic in response to her questions I simply crank up the volume on the stereo and I urge you to please respond as quickly as possible before my daughter, or I, lose our hearing.
In the meantime I humbly await your response and remain affectionately yours,
P.S. I hit two squirrels on the way to pick up my daughter. They were humping in the middle of the street. I tried to swerve but managed to catch both of them. By the way the peonies this year were glorious.