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This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 94

By: Rich Cromwell
11 min read

Into the night crept a rogue gardener. No one ever saw him, only the fruits of his labor.

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Rich Cromwell
@rcromwell4
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The neighborhood watch was apoplectic. Despite their best efforts, they couldn’t catch the perpetrator. He was extremely subtle, almost to the point of formlessness, moving as swiftly as the wind and as closely formed as wood. He had a penchant for heirloom varieties, though he wasn’t dogmatic about it, just as he wasn’t a purist when it came to organic methods.

No one ever saw him, only the fruits of his labor. Also, the vegetables of his labor. Flowers, shrubs, and bushes, too. It was exactly as MacGuffin wanted it. The life of a rogue gardener was one of quiet effort, slowly going about the planting of his own seeds and bulbs while rearranging those in lawns and gardens throughout the neighborhood.

The world was his canvas and his palette was comprised of azaleas and daisies, hollies and hydrangeas. Then, on one fateful night, everything changed. For as MacGuffin moved bulbs from one yard to the next and trimmed bushes into topiary animals, he heard a door unlock. He knew he should flee, but he had made a questionable decision and worn cowboy boots. There was no choice but to dig in his heels and fight.

As such, he continued working on a topiary, a rather large and imposing rendition of Clifford the Big Red Dog. It was then that he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and was greeted by a normally cheerful woman who, on this eve and faced with a ridiculous bush now lording over her yard, was feeling much less cheerful than normal.

She looked him in the eye, pointing her index finger at him, and issued a stern statement. It was one MacGuffin took seriously. Though he was rogue, until this point he’d thought of himself as a unifier. Annie disabused him of that notion.


Rather than resort to fisticuffs, though, another strategy was deployed. Whether proper defenestration requires a window factored in was unclear.


It was then that that one neighbor, the one every neighborhood has, came over to scold MacGuffin not for his creative disruption, but to chastise everyone for not allowing native weeds and grasses to overthrow the neighborhood. MacGuffin wasn’t having it.


Sirens wailed in the distance, but quickly came close to the scene and stopped. MacGuffin broke out in a cold sweat, but soon they realized that it was an unrelated incident. Well, the amount of bamboo MacGuffin had planted around the neighborhood may have been a factor.


Annie’s words were true. This meant that the rogue gardener had his fans. One fan had a plan, but she also had an empty glass, albeit one that had until moments earlier held a large beverage of a refreshing nature.


Clifford wasn’t the only topiary in the neighborhood. There was another and this one was becoming sentient.


From Godzilla’s shadow emerged a dissenting voice, one not so given to bush sculptures and stealth gardening.


Old Al had memories. They were loosely related to gardening yet had nothing to do with the situation at hand.


Whereas another neighbor who had wandered up had plans. If ever there were a night…


Because to some, that was a sound proposal.


Another foe emerged from the foliage, admiring the resolve of at least one other foe.


While a dutiful manservant reminded us all that he was just happy to be included.


The wizard’s bride also spoke up. There’s no reason she wouldn’t have an opinion about horticulture.


For without horticulture, how can one cultivate swarms of things?


Not that this was what MacGuffin was up to. He had fancier plans.


It was at this moment that our narrator, who is probably me, realized something important.


And that thing was that it’s still important not to forget the swarms of things.


Though not all have warm feelings about flying masses of weaponized insects.


That this particular joint was also far away from flying danger was implied by the fact that it’s not an area known for its greenspaces. MacGuffin’s foes needed their strength, after all.


An important truth about industrial parks and their non-existent greenspaces is that they don’t harbor much wildlife, particularly wildlife that might eat you for stealing its honey.


One resident had not emerged, despite the ruckus going on outside. She remembered when everyone fired up the mower at precisely 9 a.m. on Saturdays and cut their lawns to the same length. That was before the topiaries.


She wasn’t the only one with bigger issues than guerrilla landscaping.


Then they decided to take the conversation outside. MacGuffin was intrigued.


Over the industrial park, a dark cloud formed.


Annie continued to take notes, as did her sidekick, at least for the evening. Symmetry and the rule of thirds is important.


Angry bees and renegade gardeners. Next question.


Alas, on this night, the wind was to blow the clouds from the industrial park in another direction.


She faced the camera, radar map behind her, and said, with regard to the weather map behind her and her treatment thereof.


This travesty was not to go unnoticed, for there was a blogger.


It was evident to all who strode out and looked at the sky. MacGuffin contemplated using this opportunity to escape, but he figured it was worth seeing where this all would go. Also, he was kind of central if not very interesting.


These kids who just wandered across some railroad tracks, on the other hand, had quite an interesting tale to tell.


All they required to finish their tale was an Internet connection.


Although the scene was chaotic, some were in the know.


This wasn’t so much a battle for supremacy as it was a battle for aesthetic dominance.


MacGuffin, honestly, had grown tired of the whole thing and just wanted to retire for the night. And conspire.


Meanwhile, a hero stirred and ventured forth. She would talk some sense into people, mostly because she wanted to stop stirring.


Because while some favored a scorched earth solution….


…others knew what that would entail.


Also, they knew, in their hearts, that MacGuffin was right. Unless he was wrong.


Fortunately, there was someone on hand to accidentally document the proceedings. Sure, she wasn’t interested in horticulture or even the cops from earlier with that dude and the koalas, but she was interested in photography.


The pitchforks were drawn, the torches lit. Then, topiary Godzilla spoke. His pronouncement carried forth across the neighborhood, silencing all concerns, even those of Mothra.

“Friends, neighbors, creatures not crafted from bushes, lend me your ears. Though we have been split on MacGuffin, we now must admit he’s necessary. Not because of his blades or his seemingly haphazard gardening patterns, but for his ability drive the story. Also, he sort of united you all, despite that the fact that unity involved pitchforks and torches. We’ve got visual evidence.”

The neighbors listened, rapt with the big green but not scaly so much as leafy beast’s words. Clifford was less impressed and let Godzilla know.

“This is nonsense, G-Zilla, and you know it. Stop fronting. Otherwise you’re dead to me.”

But Godzilla could not stop fronting, for he had never started. He was simply stating the truth that they’d all gathered around, there in Annie’s yard, once they’d caught MacGuffin in the act.

The crowd lost its fervor and decided the topiary was right. I mean, who can argue with a sentient bush beast? Not that any of this discussion mattered, as MacGuffin had slipped off during the debate, plugged in his phone because the low battery indicator was flashing, and climbed into bed. Tomorrow was a new day and tomorrow night a new night. MacGuffin was ready.

Richard Cromwell is a writer and senior contributor at The Federalist. He lives in Northwest Arkansas with his wife, three daughters, and two crazy dogs. Co-host of the podcast Coffee & Cochon, you can find him on Facebook and Twitter, though you should probably avoid using social media.

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