If you did not read Mr. Chariot’s exquisite essay, The (Adult) Language of Flowers, published on Valentine’s Day, you missed perhaps the most edifying lesson in gentlemanly etiquette ever to appear on the pages of Le Salon Ouvert. The following day, the blogosphere was redolent with tributes to Mr. Chariot's florid prose and timely intimations.
With characteristic elegance and aplomb, Mr. Chariot reminded us that each flower conveys a unique sentiment, and that a gentleman who wishes to express himself precisely (and how else should a gentleman express himself?) must choose a flower as carefully as he would choose a balm for an ailing grandmother or an anti-emetic for a vomiting cat.
But one question remains: How does a gentleman properly express sentiments that are, shall we say, “less than love”? Clearly, this is a consequential matter, for even a marquis must betimes express disdain, indignation, or homicidal rage. But how? The etiquette of expressing oneself negatively is often overlooked in even the most adroit curricula of cultural advancement.
So today I provide what a man of Monsieur Chariot’s distinction dare not provide: An introduction to the language of weeds.
Like flowers, weeds abound in meaning; each expresses a unique sentiment. It is, therefore, incumbent upon the discriminating misanthrope to choose a weed that precisely matches his intended message.
It is my sincere hope that the following reference may be of some value.
Weeds suck –
Dr. Blevins’ (Adult) Language of Weeds
The dinner was delightful, especially after the Imodium aperitif.
I was horrified to find the remains of your cat under my Porsche!
Eggnog in your Hummer’s carburetor? How inexplicable.
I’m so sorry to hear of your daughter’s tragic accident. Perhaps the plastic surgeon can now be consulted with less ambivalence.
What an elegant evening gown. Did Sam’s have a sale?
Your lovely wife is the very emblem of pubic generosity.
I so enjoyed the fruitcake. I hope you so enjoy this weed.
Get off my lawn!
A necktie for my birthday! How creative.
Thank you for the wedding invitation. Shall I wear gray for your third go-around?
You are a genius, Mr. Chariot; yet, sometimes I wish to stab you with the pointy flourishes of your hopelessly baroque escritoire.