A gnome on the porch

A couple of weeks ago my impulse-purchasing habit sank to a new low: I bought (yes, forgive me) a plastic garden gnome. It took a while to pick him out of the crowd, because there were so many delightfully kitschy designs available on the shelf: A cantankerous-looking gnome, grimacing whilst dumping a rustic-looking wheelbarrow; another, rather drugged-looking little fellow standing under a mushroom, gazing skyward with eyes that were ever-so-slightly crossed. Finally, after spending about ten minutes oscillating between gnomes in the gardening section (and wondering if anyone was watching this process in utter revulsion and/or pity), I chose a winner--a small, red-capped gnome who is evidently trying to appear innocent as he wields a blunt-edged hatchet. With my gnome under arm, I headed to the check-out.

While waiting in the queue, a middle-aged lady, placing her own, more classy garden decocrations on the check-out belt, wordlessly cast my gnome a curious sidelong glance.
"I had to choose the one that was brandishing weaponry," I explained.
She nodded silently.
"I think he's compensating for something."
The lady and the elderly female check-out clerk cracked up.


My garden consists mostly of weeds and a few pots of gangly lavender and rosemary, but my little armed sentinel seems very serious about guarding it from oncoming intruders. Ain't nobody gonna fuck with my chives now.