I blame … well, let’s see …

Well, I went to the Denver Botanic Garden plant sale.  And …

Wow, look at all those plants on the front porch!  Huh …

Now, to be sure, I managed to fit everything into the Subaru.  And, to be sure, I saved a lot of money off of my DBG membership discount.  Really!  (“I make it up in volume …”)

But I need someone to blame before, ah, Margie gets home and, ah, offers a dissenting opinion about my, uh, vigorous support for the Gardens.

I blame …

… well, the DBG folks, obviously.  Waggling their bodacious plant life at me, taunting me with their botanical wiles, the plant-selling hussies.  I am, after all, merely mortal. 

… Marn.  I mean, after all, I bought three or four Hostas for under the deck.  I mean, that added inertia into my hurtling toward filling the Giant Wagon I was pulling.  And South Park taught us we can always blame Canada.  Or, maybe …

… the Federal Reserve, for preserving an environment of high consumer spending, in which I can only follow the irrational exuberance of the crowd. 

… Margie, of course.  She didn’t come with me to the plant sale, and, let’s face it, that’s like tucking a fifty into my pocket and sending me to Tijuana.  Except … well, I’m more likely to buy something at the plant sale, of course.

… Organized Labor.  Ah, there’s the real culprit.  It was an emergency meeting with a bunch of union folks that Margie had to attend, keeping her from coming to the plant sale with me.  An emergency meeting on a Friday afternoon?  Yeesh.  No respect for working stiffs, I say.

Yeah, that’s the ticket.  Blaming the unions is always safe.

Now, the next question is … when the hell am I going to plant the things?