Tag Archives: puns

Talking Dirty

If you’re new here, I should tell you that I love my garden and flowers.

The OCD in me takes immense pleasure in dead-heading petunias, picking green beans and pulling out weeds (in both my yard and any other surface that makes me feel twitchy—it’s actually really a curse.)

While Michigan weather is unpredictable, it’s usually a safe bet that you can start planting things any time after Memorial Day, which means we’re getting down and dirty around Chez Abby these days.

But a few trips to the greenhouse and Home Depot combined with my useless need to make puns have enlightened (questionable word choice) me to the fact that the simple act of gardening could also be a great bed to plant the seeds for a budding romance—or at least leaf a good first impression.

So if you’re someone like me whose relationship status is often: “Drunk on allergy medication and just cleaned out the cat’s crap box,” this guide might be just what you need to get down and dirty.

Get Down and Dirty

The most important thing to remember is that no trip to Home Depot (or similar home improvement store that will make you feel like you need all new handles for your cabinets) is official until you loudly proclaim either, “I just want a good stud finder!” or “Where my hose at?”

This establishes your mission—not to simply find tools or get kelp for your yard, but to find someone who will be mowtivated to maybe plant one on you (wink, wink.)

When approached by a possible suitor, be sure to lure them over to the gardening section, as making initial contact around the nails, caulk and nipples is a bit too forward these days—and the puns are entirely too obvious. You’re screwed.

See? Way too obvious.

Once you’ve secured your position in the Garden Center, casually mention that you’re an entre-manure who wants to create Miracle-Gro for small boobs. If they don’t get your humor, move on, as brilliance cannot be wasted on those who can’t till it like it is.

But what’s that, you say? They dug what you said?

Then with the fertile groundwork planted, continue to cultivate the conversation by sharing that although you’re “a bit rough around the hedges, you’re really a kick in the plants” or that you “just finished trimming your bush and are looking for veggies that will ex-seed all your expectations.”

They will probably counter with something that sounds like, “Umm…I’m rooting for you—ha, ha—but I thought you were looking for the aisle that contained cow shit for your garden.” That should be interpreted as, “I think that weed make a great pair.”

But if you’re forced to leave without your stud finder or hose, don’t feel too bad. Remember, it’s the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and at the end of the day, you’re still single and ready to shingle.


And of course, there’s no place like gnome.

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Thanks again to everyone who has shared and will continue to share—hint, hint—the news about my new book. If you read it and don’t hate it, I would love for you to write an Amazon review. If you hated it, then you probably hate my blog. And raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, but that’s okay. Some people are weird. Don’t feel bad.

Anyway, the winner of the Amazon gift card as chosen by random.org is Marie! I’ll send you an email today.

Perishable Puns

It started off simple enough with this lame Facebook status:

perishable puns

To put it in a nutshell, people relished the update and even mustard up the strength to ketchup with me and contribute to the fray (there was mushroom for improvement.) So that simple update planted the seed for this post, a series of perishable personal ads you probably won’t find on Craig’s List.

Dig in.

Hi. I’m Herb. I’ve been hurt before, but I’m gingerly throwing my caraway and trying to find love one more thyme. While I’m no sage, chive got a feeling that if we share some common interests—conversation peppered with laughs, the desire to curry on a new friendship—thistle work and we’ll become the pesto friends.

Born and bread in Coloradough, I’m just a simple guy wondering what I am doughing here. My past attempts at dating have gone a-rye, and I’ve found myself in seedy bars with weirdoughs thinking, “I donut belong here.” But I figured I kneaded to try this again, and placing an ad was the yeast I could do. I’m looking for someone to loaf around with who is willing to go against the grain, roll with the punches and rise to any occasion. If this is you, please reply and I will millet over.

Well-cultured woman looking for a gouda time with a minimal margarine for error. It a curd to me that I in no whey deserve to settle for less than jam-packed excitement—which is a nice way of pudding it—so the more spontaneous you are, the butter. I cannoli imagine the fun we will have!

Single chick with chili disposition looking to stop floundering around. Past dating experiences have been offal, dare I say the wurst, and I won’t make that missed steak again! I’m accident prawn with a bit of a fowl mouth, but would love to meat someone who I can bacon for companionship and fun. If that sounds like ewe, carpe diem!

I yam hoping this ad will produce some grate replies, as I’m tired of medi-okra dates with men who think a huge celery means we make a great pear. Bean there, done that and sometimes I wonder why I even carrot all. But if you march to the beet of your own drum, lettuce meet and see what might turnip.

I know. I know. Any way you slice it, these are corny and I falafel about how cheesy they are. But don’t worry…I won’t milk this anymore.

That’s a wrap.

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