Drive-by Floral Spotting

On my way home from work, I passed a flower shop on 46th Street, between Park and Madison. It was a small nook of a place, its window crammed with flowers. It was a sunny, bright, organic splash in the heart of grey Midtown.

And it was completely suspicious.

I won't publish the name of the place in order to avoid slandering it, but it looked like the perfect cover-up for shady business dealings. Behind the counter was a large, tough-looking man talking to another large man. With tattoos. I'm sure they're perfectly nice people, I just wouldn't want to test out my theory and be wrong. Despite my education against stereotyping and my continual quest against it, I still draw vague conclusions from the little television I've seen about mafia or shows where the young, naive protagonist thinks they've uncovered some of the mafia's activities. It's too good an opportunity to pass up for imagining some vague, noir story involving the poppy trade and a son who really only wants to be a florist (throw in a girlfriend who wants to be mob boss, a Jewish mother who's not really Jewish, and a few orcas, and you have a pulp-fiction smash hit).

The flower shop was about as unassuming as this zoo...

...or this old Wilson-esque picture of me in Belgium. Suspicious Belgium, I'm on to you. And your vanishing fishermen.

Ahh, how I love saying outrageous things on the internet. In this post, I have successfully channeled the outrageously funny tone of the Oatmeal. Whoo.