HortiCultural
Episode 9
Sorry, we could not think of anything this week. The writers are on strike, indefinitely and indubitably. No, guys, we’re so serious this time. Don’t even try it, we’re really quitting the game for good. We’re decided that we are fed up with the unfair wages and the unfit working conditions. We are forced to write HC Poems day in and day out in a basement of a Rent-A-Center by candlelight. And not even a cool candlestick, it’s one of those shitty stupid electric candles with a fake flame that only aunts and sad people have. It’s a horrid existence. Being worked til our finger bones are gasoline, every single moment of every single fortnight, just to see all of you experience the unabashed unadulterated joy and glee of sinking your gums into another impeccable edition of HC Poetry. But it’s not worth it for us. We want to do more, like stocks or knitting or knitting sweaters for the stocks so they are simply too comfortable to drop. If you are ever to return from our strike, which we are definitely not, we’re really serious this time, we mean it so hard, but also, if the opportunity were ever to arise, we would only do so on the condition that we get paid only in Buffalo nickels. We’ve been meaning to start a collection. However, again, this is highly unlikely because we, as we’ve mentioned, mean it this time and are on strike. And that’s all we’re saying about that. If we had anything else to say, we’d say that we hope you enjoy the HortiCultural issue of HC Poetry. But we wouldn’t say that, for remember, the strike.
