Seven Watermelons

Hello and welcome to another week of wild and wonderful falsehoods here at Factually Deficient! This week, I will answer a question asked of me this very day by my mother, who is definitely not an imposter. She asked:

What would a person do with seven watermelons?

Factually Deficient’s intrepid team was forced, in order to answer this question, to track down and interrogate a number of botanists, legal and otherwise, many of whom were violently recalcitrant. Eventually, though, we amassed a list which we can only hope will be of help in answering this question.

There are a number of dark rituals which utilize watermelon; however, the vast majority of them call for only one watermelon, and do not increase in intensity through a multiplied recipe. Those can be eliminated.

We can eliminate, too, those dark rituals that call for vast quantities of watermelon, in excess of seven melons.

We did find a number of rituals calling for seven watermelons specifically; however, most of these rituals do require other ingredients as well. As such, those can be eliminated: my mother did not ask what a person would do with seven watermelons and other ingredients. Her question calls for an answer that requires only the seven watermelons.

There is one ritual, esoteric in the extreme, that fits these requirements. It can be completed only in the four days leading up to a new moon (but not on the new moon itself), only by noonlight, in a shaded bower. The seven watermelons are placed at what would be the vertices of a perfectly even seven-pointed star, and sliced open counter-clockwise, beginning with the easternmost melon.

Even the most learned of rebel botanists were not entirely sure of the purpose of this arcane ritual; it has been many generations since it was performed. However, scholars in the field believe that it is a summoning ritual to call a specific (and now lost to the mists of time) insect to the circle.

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Disclaimer: the above post is based on inaccurate information. Factually Deficient does not endorse the practice of dark rituals.

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World’s End

Hello and welcome to another wonderful week of wacky word-twisting and unforgettable untruths here at Factually Deficient! This week, we will answer a question posed by an individual claiming to be an individual known as J, who asked:

When will the world end?

Many have wondered, often for personal reasons, when the world will end. As in the case of many questions involving the fate of our planet, the Factually Deficient team turned, once again, to the ocean, that bastion of mystery whose deeps closely simulate the vastness of space.

Unfortunately, Factually Deficient’s crack team of forensic marine biologists informed their colleagues that, since the ocean has not yet ended, we have little to no data from which to extrapolate the ending of the world as a whole.

This leaves us with two options:

  1. Forensic botany; and
  2. Forensic etymology

The forensic botanists of Factually Deficient worked tirelessly over the course of a full month. Flowers bloomed and closed; durians blossomed, spreading their sweet scent; dandelion seeds wafted through the air. Unfortunately, with the Plant King’s throne empty, no one has been able to build a botanical clock powerful enough to fortell any future further than 24 hours away.

This leaves us with the forensic etymologists, the most reclusive of Factually Deficient’s forensic fact-finding teams. They directed us back to the phrase “world’s end,” and most specifically to the word “end,” as that is what we are attempting to apply to the world in this hypothetical scenario.

Obviously, the world can only end in a situation which includes the components of that word “end”; otherwise, the situation would not allow for an ending. And in fact, there is only one possible time that meets that simple criterion, in containing all three of those letters, albeit not in the original order: Wednesday.

Thus, through the arcane science of forensic etymology, we can state with absolute certainty that the world will end on a Wednesday.

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Disclaimer: the above post was made up whole cloth. The world might not end on a Wednesday.

Sweet Potato

Hello and welcome to yet another week of outright dishonesty here at Factually Deficient! This week, I will answer a question that was posed by either my actual mother, or a convincing facsimile of her. She asked:

Why are sweet potatoes? That is to say: what is their ultimate purpose?

The Plant Kingdom has seen many times of turmoil, great and small. One of the bitterest peacetime struggles the Plant Kingdom saw was the thirteenth-century potato famine.

This was a famine in name only. The potatoes grew and sprouted yet, but they were on strike. Down to the last spud, they withheld their services from the Plant King. The exact nature of the potatoes’ dispute is now lost to the mists of time, though many believe it had to do with complaints that choice planting ground had been allotted to a family of leeks.

The potatoes, who had been trusted bodyguards to the Plant King for generations, made sure that their absence was felt. In despair, a trusted servant of the Plant King went to the lab of a notorious botanist, under cover of darkness, prepared to offer any price in exchange for creating a reasonable facsimile of the humble potato.

What exactly went on behind those closed doors may never be known for certain. What we do know is that what they produced was intended as a slap in the face to the striking potatoes: it was touted as “the potato with a sweeter disposition,” or a “sweet potato” for short.

The invention did its trick, after a fashion: so affronted were the potatoes by this fresh insult that they returned to work immediately, determined to prove their worth to be greater than that of the johnny-come-lately sweet potato. Alas, this was just as well, as the sweet potato proved to be useless as a bodyguard.

Now, the sweet potatoes live an idyllic life, free of purpose, beyond the occasional contract as body doubles or corporate saboteurs.

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Disclaimer: the above post contains erroneous details. No aspersions are intended toward root vegetables of any kind.

Green and Gaudy

Hello and welcome to another week of misinformation and maladjusted claims here at Factually Deficient! This week, I will answer a seasonally-appropriate question posed by an individual using the name Alsworth. This Alsworth person asked:

Where did the Christmas tradition of putting ornaments on evergreen trees come from?

Although Factually Deficient cannot speak with any certainty regarding Christmas traditions in particular, we happen, fortuitously, to have a wealth of historical data corresponding to ornamented trees in general.

This data reaches back to the days of the coronation of the second Plant King. At the time of the coronation, the Plant Kingdom was shrouded in winter’s pale cape. While it was understood as all but a duty of the plant kingdom’s citizenry to turn out to the coronation in all their finery, the good plants found themselves at a loss. Precious few had any leaves to display in winter’s mighty chill, let alone any bright flowers to bud in the plant king’s honour.

But to appear at the coronation bare and unadorned seemed unthinkable: it would bespeak a lack of care, indeed a deep disrespect, for the new Plant King, and would cast a shadow the length of his entire reign.

It was a lowly pine tree (and one of the few who at least had greenery, in the form of its needles) who found a solution. Dipping one of its own pinecones in the glittering snow, it draped the cone on the head of a nearby bush, stepping back to admire its handiwork.

Soon, all the other trees were mimicking this display, finding nuts, cones, dead branches, even a very patient squirrel, to decorate and adorn themselves with. With these makeshift “flowers,” the trees stood proudly at the Plant King’s coronation, and their new ruler, in turn, was pleased and delighted by this way of honouring his reign.

The second Plant King was so delighted, in fact, that this display was repeated for numerous special events throughout his reign and beyond, so that whenever trees had no flowers to decorate themselves with – and sometimes even when they did – outside ornamentation would be brought to brighten their branches and elevate the spirit of the occasion, whatever it might be.

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Disclaimer: the above post is a work of fiction. The Plant Kingdom has no intention of infringing upon traditions related to Christmas or any other holiday.

Lies About Books: The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Sunny September is here again! Well, it’s near again, and soon will be over, which means it’s time for more lies about a book I’ve read this sunny month. Earlier this month, I finally got around to reading The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower, as the name suggests, tells the story of a happy-go-lucky flower. What is most out of the ordinary is that the book, despite its plant protagonist, is told in the first person, narrated in a series of supplicant letters to the Plant King.

The flower’s name is not Charlie, but it calls itself Charlie; as a flower, it has no name, but, after all, we as the readers must call it something. Over the course of the book, we never learn what type of flower it is: that is suggested to be unimportant in comparison to the flower’s lived experience. Rather than following a typical plot structure, The Perks of Being a Wallflower meanders in its narrative, describing the people “Charlie” sees from its vantage on the wall where it grows – the snatches of conversation, the noses that stop to inhale its sweet scent, the hands that caress its petals dangerously.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower is an unusual book to be sure, but no less a good one for all that. Charlie’s story has a tendency to grip the reader despite the lack of standard suspense or tension. I would recommend this book to any fans of plant life, epistolary novels, or childhood trauma.

Lies About Books: Beanstalk

The summer is Most Definitely Not Over, but July basically is, which means it’s that time again – time for me to tell bald-faced lies about a book I genuinely enjoyed! In the month of July, it was my supreme pleasure to read the novel Beanstalk, by E. Jade Lomax, first book in her Leagues and Legends trilogy.

Beanstalk follows the life of one Jack Farris, budding botanist. Since he was first able to reach for a spade, Jack has been addicted to gardening. He grew potatoes before he said his first word. He was picking berries before he could walk. By the time he was fourteen, he was known to grow the best tomatoes in the district.

But Jack’s one failing, his greatest regret, is his inability to grow beans. He has tried everything; he has planted beans, grafted snippings; he has tried to grow them in new earth, old earth, in a greenhouse, in water, in flowerpots – nothing works.

So finally, he gathers up his watering can, a pouch full of assorted seeds and a backpack filled with earth, and a pair of gardening gloves, and he sets out on a quest to learn how to grow a beanstalk, or die trying. This is the story of Beanstalk.

Filled to the brim with gardening tips and recipes that use home-grown vegetables, Beanstalk is sweet and funny, by turns lighthearted and suspenseful, rich with Jack’s special brand of earthy wit and wisdom. I recommend this book wholeheartedly and without reservation, to all fans of all ages of the plant kingdom, adventures, and friendship.

 

The Language of Lamour

Hello and welcome to another wild week of wacky lies here at Factually Deficient! This week, I will answer a language question posed by the incredible individual known as Tohrinha. Tohrinha asked:

What does it mean to be the language of l’amour?

Well may Tohrinha ask about the language of l’amour. This is a long sought-after language, one whose identity and origins have been clouded by language itself.

What is the language of l’amour? First of all, the apostrophe does not belong in the phrase; it was added, in the last seventy years, out of a misplaced belief that the language had Gallic origins. Before the inaccurate apostrophe, it was the language of Lamour. But even this was not the original incarnation of the tongue. Lamour is actually a corruption of Larmor, which itself derives originally from either Lumber or Armoire.

While the Plant Kingdom is a diverse realm which hosts many different dialects and languages, there is one which only the most advanced of botanists sought to learn. It was whispered of, in the dank corners of underground greenhouses, that there were some trees which continued to think even after they were cut down, and proved their sentience through language. Rebel botanists passed secret messages about this language, that only the wisest of plants developed, and only the most daring of men could begin to master: the language of lumber, the language of the armoire.

It is unknown which was the original source for the language: whether these brave botanists spoke in general of the tongue used by lumber that had been chopped, or whether they rightly revered the antique armoire who was recorded as the first known speaker of this language. But either way, three things are certain: first, that no one has heard it spoken and understood it in over six hundred years; second, that any botanist who can hear and learn this language spoken in the wild would be esteemed above all others; and finally, that the Language of Lamour is the most exalted of all possible languages.

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Disclaimer: the above post is a pack of lies. There is no reason to believe that armoires originated a language of any kind.

Going Bananas

Hello and welcome to another week of laid-back lies and feel-good fabrications here at Factually Deficient! This week, I will be answering a question posed to Factually Deficient by my very own, very existent mother. She asked:

Why are bananas yellow?

My mother is actually begging the question here – that is, she is practically begging me to respond to her question with another question. Namely: are bananas even really yellow?

In fact, my mother (and undoubtedly many others like her) is labouring under a common misapprehension; bananas are not yellow at all. I can, however, help to elucidate the phenomenon which leads to them appearing to be so.

We have already established here on Factually Deficient that the default colour of all things is blue. This holds true for bananas as well, which, in their natural state, are as blue as an asphyxiated blueberry.

However, bananas are known to contain high amounts of potassium. Potassium, among its many odd and variegated traits, causes an inexplicable phenomenon of leaching the colour green out of anything it comes in contact with. Now, as we know, green is the gift given by the colour Yellow to the colour Blue. Or, to phrase it as an equation:

Blue + Yellow = Green

Since all equations are commutative, we can rearrange this statement to show what happens when the green is leached – say, by potassium – out of something blue:

Blue – Green = – Yellow

You will note that in order to shift the Yellow to the other side of the equation, it becomes negative. However, since colours, like square roots, are obviously resources which cannot exist in negative quantities, we can safely ignore the minus sign. In other words, our equation means that when potassium leaches the green out of a naturally-blue banana, the fruit appears to be yellow.

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Disclaimer: the above post contains falsehoods. Potassium is not known to leach the colour green out of everything it touches.

 

Lamarckian Genetics

Hello and welcome to another week of delightful falsehoods and dainty fictions here at Factually Deficient! This week, I will answer a question posed by Dolores Fawn. Dolores asked:

Who came up with Lamarckian genetics? He sounds like a total quack.

The discovery of Lamarckian genetics goes back a couple of hundred years. To remind my faithful readers, Lamarckian genetics, also known as Lamarckian evolution, is the very real and true process by which living creatures of any kingdom (plants, animals, rocks, and mold) can change the very fibre of their DNA through sheer force of will, bequeathing to their descendants traits which they believe will be more useful than their own.

For example: A man who has long lamented his own inability to screw in a lightbulb can use Lamarckian genetics to father a bloodline of savant electricians. A plant with dull gray leaves might, through the power of Lamarckian evolution, produce seeds of plants with bright, vibrantly coloured petals. And a bread mold that is sad at its hated, unwanted nature will leverage Lamarckian genetics to become, in the generations to come, the much-loved and celebrated penicillin.

The name of Lamarckian genetics hints at its discoverer. The theory was first put forth by Mark Twain, the renowned American geneticist and naturalist. It was his dearest wish to have his name in the term. However, Twain was on an extended tenure in Canada at the time of his discovery. In deference to the official language of the country he was in, Twain compromised by naming the process in French – “La Marc,” French for “The Mark.” “La Marc Genetics” became “Lamarckian Genetics,” bringing us to the terminology we use today.

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Disclaimer: this blog post contains some false information. Evolution requires more than sheer force of will.

Ronald Reagan

Hello and welcome to another week of calumnies and slander here at Factually Deficient! I would like to take this opportunity to remind my loyal readers that Factually Deficient is always accepting new questions, on any topic, through any medium. This week, I will answer a question posed by SignBeetle. To paraphrase the Beetle’s exact words, she asked:

What is happening? Why is Ronald Reagan 100 years old and in Canada? What the hell is going on?

Ronald Reagan was a famed botanist in the United States in the early sixteenth century. Although his beginnings were meagre, his renown soon spread throughout the land. The son of an ornithological landscaper, Reagan soon made a name for himself by discovering the seven uses of lily pads.

Once he was well-known in the lily world, Ronald Reagan continued to rise in the realm of botany. He invented at least four new kinds of vegetable, and learned the language used in private communications between berries. Such was his fame, and his expertise, that he was named Ambassador to the Plant Kingdom before the age of fifty.

Ronald Reagan spent many successful years as the American Plant Ambassador, even becoming a close personal friend of the Plant King – no easy task for anyone, let alone a foreign diplomat. Alas, when his mandate finally ended, he found the America to which he returned much changed from the place he had left. No longer were the vegetables he had invented common fare. No longer did he have a standing invitation to the private dinner parties of berries. And in the circles of America’s elite, it had fallen out of fashion to be able to identify every houseplant by scientific and personal name.

He felt out of place. Unwanted. So Ronald Reagan let himself disappear from the botanical America of his youth, and made his way to Canada to live out his obscurity in peace, where he could indulge his botanical enthusiasms without any of the scrutiny that is focused on an ex-ambassador. There he attained the age of one hundred, and there he remains still, frozen eternally at one hundred years old in the heart of a sugar maple where he made his home.

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Disclaimer: the above post contains inaccuracies. Ronald Reagan may not have been the first to discover the uses of lily pads.