Your roadside stand customers offer to pay you, if you'll keep your vegetables. Your pesticide company sprays you instead.
You hire a lawyer, to defend yourself, from the class-action lawsuit the locust file against you.
You're able to grow more mold in the desert, than veggies in your garden.
You hire the United States Secretary of Agriculture, as a consultant, to get a row of radishes to sprout.
Your heart tells you "yes!"; your knees tell you "no!"
Your weeds are your best friends, not your enemies. (You figure, at least with the weeds, something is growing.)
You don't have fourteen trillion zucchinis to pass out in late August
Your sweat is how you water your garden, causing flooding to kill your plants.
You buy veggies at the store and then lay them around in your garden, to impress others
Your woodchucks know your first name and you attend Junior Woodchuck's high school graduation.
You attempt to rototill your driveway.
Your neighbor's compost heap wins first place in the county fair, instead of your garden.
You drive your spade deep into the ground for the first time and lights flicker in the neighborhood.
You planted on New Year's Day, because the seeds were on sale.
Your rabbits actually prefer the plastic vegetable display on your kitchen table.
Your slice of cheese, in the bottom of the frig, is the only thing green growing on your property.
Your zucchinis are bought by the United Starts Defense Department, for artillery training.
The only Burpee in your garden is from indigestion.
