Barnaby Buttonsworth, a man whose greatest ambition was growing the world’s largest bean sprout, was in a pickle. He’d spent months meticulously crafting the perfect soil, whispering encouraging words to his seedlings, and even playing them classical music (mostly Vivaldi). He was sure he was on the verge of greatness, a verdant victory that would etch his name in horticultural history.
Then came Mildred McMillan, his overly-competitive neighbor. Mildred, known for her prize-winning petunias and aggressive croquet skills, took one look at Barnaby’s bean sprout farm, a collection of meticulously tended trays overflowing with potential, and scoffed.
“Bean sprouts, Barnaby?” she chirped, her voice dripping with saccharine disapproval. “So…avant-garde.”
Barnaby puffed out his chest. “These, Mildred, are not just any bean sprouts. These are destined for glory! I’m talking record books, Mildred! These are the ‘Bean Sprouts of Disaster’ for any other competitor!” He meant, of course, disaster for them, not him. He just liked the dramatic flair.
Mildred raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Disaster, you say? More like disaster if you try serving them at the garden club picnic. They look a bit…leggy.”
That was it. War was declared. The next day, Barnaby awoke to find his prized sprouts mysteriously…gone. Vanished. Poof. He was distraught. He searched high and low, under the rose bushes, behind the bird bath, even in Mildred’s compost heap (which, admittedly, smelled suspiciously of bean sprouts).
Finally, defeated, he confronted Mildred. “Mildred,” he said, his voice trembling with barely suppressed rage, “have you seen my bean sprouts?”
Mildred, innocently trimming a deadhead from a rose, looked up. “Bean sprouts? Oh, you mean those…things? Well, dear, I saw a flock of pigeons having a veritable feast on them this morning. Such a shame. But you know what they say, ‘one pigeon’s feast is another gardener’s compost.'” She gave him a sweet, but utterly insincere, smile.
Barnaby was heartbroken. His dreams, devoured by pigeons! Then, he noticed something. Mildred’s prize-winning petunias were drooping, their usually vibrant petals looking…pecked.
“Mildred,” he said slowly, a wicked grin spreading across his face, “those pigeons…were they perhaps…glowing slightly green?”
Mildred’s eyes widened in horror. “Oh dear,” she whispered. “I used organic fertilizer. Perhaps the…ahem…’Bean Sprouts of Disaster’ were too… potent.” The pigeons, apparently, had acquired a taste for prize-winning petunias and a very unusual shade of green.
