Not Again
An
estimated deduction on the thoughts and feelings of a bowl of petunias that was
once a heat-seeking missile
Disclaimer: It is a scientific,
philosophical, and anthropological fact that nobody in the known universe has
yet been able to understand the thoughts of plant life, especially of the
soft-colored yet tough-natured petunia flower. This brief hypothesis into the
conceivable thought process of the universe’s most famous bowl of flowers is
fictitious and merely exists as a possible stream of thought based on available
knowledge of the events that have taken place involving a dormant planet, an
advanced hyperdrive system, and a sperm whale. Please enjoy.
And suddenly, there it was.
A heavy push of wind violently shook
the pot of flowers, nearly making it sick from the sudden change of atmosphere.
The bowl of petunias was not particularly happy about this new situation, to
say the least. What an inconvenience this has become. Immediately, it began to
miss the waiting room of pre-existence where it had spent much of its time
waiting to be introduced into the cold, hard reality of existence. Sure, it
wasn’t the nicest place to hang around. There were plenty of soonborn babies
being peddled through, crying and starting up a fuss (even though the human
babies, often the noisiest of the bunch, suddenly stopped passing through,
which the flowers felt was rather odd at the time.) It had made some nice acquaintances
during its stay, such as the time it struck up an interesting conversation with
a jet pack fueled entirely out of the mucus of an Alterion Grabble-Thon that
was yet to be invented, or the time it chatted with a reanimated species of the
previously extinct line of Thorvians. There was even a point where it sat down
with a question that seemed to think very highly of itself, but couldn’t seem
to find its answer.
But the thing that it would miss the
most were the little cocktails that they served every now and again. Always on
a nice, thin platter, delicately placed and ready to be eaten, sitting next to
the magazines that were always a month too old.
The bowl of petunias didn’t realize how strange it is for flowers to be
eating anything, particularly cocktails, but this seemed to be the least of its
concerns at the moment.
A few yards away, it spotted what
appeared to be a large sperm whale falling much faster, hurtling at a shocking
pace towards the snow-covered mountains. Upon seeing this whale, the bowl of petunias
realized what was happening and couldn’t help but sigh a disappointed breath of
oxygen. Oh no, it thought, not again.
This was actually not the first time
that the Improbability Drive had brought into existence this particular bowl of
petunias. In fact, this had happened several times before in very similar
circumstances. The scientists who developed the Improbability Drive noticed
this odd reoccurrence and were convinced that it was a bug in the system.
Surely a hyperdrive based on an immensely vast quantity of improbable
happenings shouldn’t contain any detectable patterns, especially for a
seemingly useless thing like a bowl of petunias. What these scientists failed
to consider was how improbable it was that the Improbability Drive had any
patterns at all, meaning that the probability of the Improbability Drive having
any probable outcomes becomes more improbable than the Improbability Drive
failing to have any consistent probabilities.
The bowl of petunias probably
already knew this though, considering that this had happened before, and merely
drooped its petals down half of a quarter of a centimeter, which is the floral
equivalent to shrugging one’s shoulders in defeat and mild annoyance. These
realizations made the petunias very tired.
The flowers watched the sperm whale
flailing its tail around and tried to guess what it was thinking. Perhaps he
was trying to fly away? The bowl of petunias considered doing the same and
tried to flap its leaves like the small wings of a bird. However, although
petunias are able to move autonomously, it would take a single flower weeks (or
days, depending on its determination) to even move enough for an organic eye to
notice any actual change. The bowl of petunias only had approximately 21
seconds before it smashed into the planet below.
This fact depressed the part of the
bowl of petunias that was still a missile. Though the feeling would pass in
time (if time was on their side, which it wasn’t due to a grudge that time has
with improbability over an awkward pool party).
What little was left of the
consciousness of the heat-seeking missile began to panic. It wanted nothing
more than to exist again, to break away from its destined target and fly away
through the open sky. It wished to be home with its wife and three kids,
longing for the days before the draft into Magrathea’s security units. And in
the midst of the desolate abyss closing around, filling the void with its own
brand of forgotten horror and solitude, the missile screamed in silence,
cursing God and crying out final goodbyes to the ones that it loved so dearly.
Then it remembered it was a missile,
and it probably shouldn’t be thinking of such petty, emotional things.
Thus the consciousness of the
heat-seeking missile faded away, leaving the bowl of petunias finally alone
with its thoughts. What is often missed by researchers and historians who show
an academic interest in the life and times of this bowl of petunias were the
actual final thoughts of the flowers mere nanoseconds before their immediate
destruction: Ah, that’s better.
