Easy Ornaments: Squishy Balls in a Vase

Difficulty - 1/5

Duration - 1/5

"I shall call them squishy and they shall be my balls."

Who'da thunk third year of medical school would be so darned difficult? If you've not noticed over the past few weeks, I've been having quite a bit of trouble making sure we hard working folk here at The Pop Culture Cynic have the usual premium quality content that you've grown to expect ready and waiting for you twice a week, and it's not looking like that issue is going to let up any time soon. The schedule is all over the place and I've not even the time to bash out a few emergency posts, so essentially consider this a formal warning that things might be less than structured for a while thanks to the joys of adult responsibility that come with pursuing a career in the dark arts. What ever happened to the simpler days of youth, eh?

"When Don Cuddleone asks for mashed banana, he means now, damnit."

Sadly, this less than desirable situation has meant you're getting the crappiest post imaginable: I'm going to show you how to put a plant in a vase. Yup, shit is getting straight up fucking mental in here. I'm a crazy person, I don't know what I might do next! Crochet? Cat breeding? A light spot of synchronised dusting? Anything could happen! I'm almost embarrassed by how boring this is, so I've decided to aim this post at a very specifically pitiful demographic in much need of being pandered to: divorced, unemployed 40 year old men.

Your wife has left you. First, buy a vase and a pot plant. Sure, you're still alone, but now you're responsible for the well-being of a basic life form; you have purpose! Then buy these really cool things:

You can use the empty sachets as baggies for drugs. Lots of interesting drugs.

They're called Bio-gel Beads, I call them Squishy Water Balls; decide for yourselves which name would sell better. They're pretty much dried up coloured seaweed that you soak in water so you don't have to remember to water your sad, withered fern every time you come round from your most recent 12 day binge on cornershop turpentine in an attempt to forget the wretched excuse of a life falling apart around you.

If you put the flash on your camera they look surprisingly cool for the physical
manifestation of a desperate person's inevitable self-destruction.

Soak each colour separately in a litre of mineral water for at least 24 hours and they'll have magically soaked up most of the water, much like your wife soaked up every last drop of your manhood before spitting you out again like a bit of chewing gum that lost its flavour. Drain off the excess water and put the balls in as vase like so:

The skeleton in the background, unlike you, has a spine.

I've gone for a Matrix-style red pill/blue pill sort of look, because it's cool. You could go for any colour you like; maybe the colour of her eyes, or the favourite colour of the child you're never going to see again because you weren't awarded visitation rights. I mean, you only left them alone in the kitchen with the cleaning cupboard open that one time. And you weren't even conscious when that fire started, so how was it your fault?

Next, take the plant you've bought...

Here's mine, hanging out with another of my recent achievements.

...and clean the roots of soil much like you'll never be able to clean- yeah, you get it. Its funny because I'm mocking the stereotype. Just clean the fucking roots.

This.

Shove the plant in the pot, and voilà. That was reaaaally hard.

"I am so not hard right now."

Now you've successfully made a plant capable of sustaining it's own life indoors for an extended period of time. You are officially obsolete. That is all.