My loathing of this wretched bloom probably started in high school, when cheerleaders would sell them as a fundraiser around Valentine’s Day and Homecoming. The more flowers you received from cupids who could do the splits, the more popular you clearly were. And the popular bitches would carry those stinky stalks around from class to class.
Let’s just say, I did not have a bouquet stuck out of my Trapper Keeper.
Now, I hate the crapass carnation for all new reasons. It stinks. You can often buy the dyed blue variety at gas stations. Classy. It fills in for better buds at funeral homes and the race track. As a boutonniere, it becomes a ball of blech.
Carnations are supposed to represent fascination and distinction. They can have the distinction of being the first flower to fascinate at my fist. The time is nigh to mulch these asshole flowers into a pulp. And after putting the petal to the metal of my rototiller, I am happy to report that I now only smell success.
Baby’s breath, you're on notice. If you know what's good for you, you'll steer clear.