Barnaby Buttercup, a man whose ambition far outweighed his common sense, decided to plant the biggest plane tree in the world. He envisioned a majestic shade-giver, a leafy leviathan under which entire villages could picnic. He’d call it the “Big Useless,” a name he found ironically hilarious. He ordered a sapling, a monstrous thing that arrived on a flatbed truck, dwarfing his already diminutive house.
Planting it was an epic undertaking. Barnaby, sweating profusely, wrestled with ropes and pulleys, aided only by his overly enthusiastic but utterly useless chihuahua, Coco. “Come on, Coco, pull!” Barnaby bellowed, as Coco mostly just yipped and chased butterflies.
Months turned into years. Barnaby meticulously cared for his Big Useless, fertilizing, watering, and generally fussing over it. He regaled anyone who would listen (and many who wouldn’t) with tales of his colossal achievement. One scorching summer afternoon, a group of sun-baked tourists approached him.
“Excuse me,” one asked, wiping sweat from his brow. “Is this the famous Big Useless?”
Barnaby puffed out his chest, beaming. “Indeed it is! The largest plane tree in the world!”
The tourist squinted at the surprisingly small amount of shade cast by the massive tree. “But…it’s not very…useful for shade, is it?”
Barnaby looked up at the tree, then back at the tourist, a slow realization dawning on his face. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling a single leaf from the sparse canopy. “Well,” he said, a sheepish grin spreading across his face, “at least it’s good for one thing…” He held up the leaf. “…leaf-letting!”
