Seed sack in one hand and broom pole in the other, Johnny Appleseed approached a patch of freshly tilled earth. Four rows, twelve feet long each, ran parallel to one another. With the broom pole in his left hand, he faced the first row, made a hole and dropped three seeds within. He sidestepped six inches to the left, made another hole, dropped another three seeds in. At the end of the first row, Johnny briefly glanced back over his shoulder and caught a hoarding chipmunk stuffing his face with seeds from a hole he'd just sown four feet away....
One left, one right. Two by two, on and on, ad infinitum.
No one has ever had any doubt about Johnny's prowess. The man has a fucking PhD in horticulture, and all without a day of instruction or a minute of in-class study. A natural, they said.
The trick was in the wrist. A little dip-and-flick, and they soar into the dirt with just enough force.
A master seeds-man, with few adversaries.
Damn 'munks don't know how to take a hint.
Bury them he did, but sometimes the little cretins would stumble upon the treasure troves and gobble the pre-germinated...
Jack had checked every store. He'd gone to every hardware, garden or nursery store, and then he'd gone back.
They gave him the same spiel everywhere he went. "No seeds, dahling," they'd say. "The apples had no seeds this year."
Despairing, he sat down at the wooden bar, rested his elbows and called for the tender. "Gimme a hard cider. You're best stuff."
"Sorry," the tender said, laying her voluptuousness on the bar across from him. "No apples this year, means no cider. No apples last year, means no cider. No apples for five years, no cider. Get the picture?"...