In her column today, Fabi has outdone herself. It's her usual bad writing, but on a grand scale.
Fabi has somehow reshaped her usual blather and gibberish into a new and exquisite form of literary art.
This is writing so bad, it's good.
Hopefully, after reading today's column, someone at the Pulitzer Board will consider creating a new Pulitzer category: "Most Unintelligible Newspaper Column."
It is possible, however, that the appearance of Fabi's column in the paper today was an error.
It may be that she mistakenly turned in a column written while she was high on bath salts.
It's also possible that as I write this, someone at the paper is crafting a correction that will run in Sunday's paper: "Because of a production error, we published a column in Saturday's paper by Fabiola Santiago that was nothing more than a stream of gibberish and utter nonsense. We offer our sincere apologies to readers who may have been offended or confused."
And now, here is Fabiola's complete column, followed by the same column, but with some "improvements."
Weeds proliferate like Florida’s bad gun laws
By Fabiola Santiago
I raised the machete high in the air above my head, and without a second thought, brought down the sharp blade on the stalk of the plantain tree to free the bountiful cluster of fruit. I missed — and the machete flew out of my hands.
In that one second we sometimes get to change an outcome, I jumped out of its way, living with extraordinary clarity the brief span of time that separates life from death, wellness from injury, wisdom from insanity.
I learned that next time I wrestle with Mother Nature, I need to bring a ladder so I can at least be at eye level.
Or pick the fruit from the tree daily. It’s a sweet chore, and I get to share the bounty with birds and other creatures — possums, lizards, wandering cats, and ant colonies in search of delicacies in the midst of our thickening urbanity.
But still, I am an amateur.
Since I started taking care of my green space two years ago after my father died — my way of trying to hold on to one of the things we shared and I treasured — there’s only been one word to describe the look of my yard and my efforts: hardscrabble.
The weeds won the war.
What I sprinkled on to kill them, made them grow.
Weeds proliferate like Florida’s bad gun laws.
The only thing you can predict is that there will be more of both to come. Making the rounds in the Florida Legislature are these proposals: teachers and administrators packing heat; kids getting away with pointing make-believe guns in school; tax collectors handling weapons’ permits like car tags; insurance companies forbidden from charging more to gun owners, although they can and do for certain dog breeds.
I need new grass.
Florida needs new governance.
Despite the dollar weed and carpet grass, however, it’s not all bad news in the garden.
The Tree of Gold (also known as Caribbean Trumpet Tree) the developer threw in with the house and the multicolored bougainvillea my father planted along the back fence are glorious. Not that I can take any credit other than saving them from people like my former hired gardener who wanted to annihilate them. These sturdy beauties thrive in Florida weather with other herbaceous wonders that require little maintenance, at least from my point of view.
My father was a fan of taming living things. I enjoy the wild view. How else can one observe the genuine process of growth and change?
I can’t offer an expert opinion on climate change, for example, but I can say that my Tree of Gold used to shed all of its green leaves before it burst into pregnant clusters of yellow flowers on bare branches.
This warm winter left most of the leaves.
My father and I once had a heated argument when I arrived at his house and found him mercilessly whacking away at his beautiful hibiscus hedge. The only thing he was right about was that it was his hibiscus to trim.
And so I stand by my machete.
I may be an amateur, but I wield an instrument sharpened by my father. Only that I’ve now learned from experience how to use it wisely.
While today's column was loaded with Fabi's usual gibberish, I decided it needed more.
So I plugged parts of it into a gibberish generator.
The result? A column that's full of even more gibberish. And it's one, I'm sure, that Fabi would be proud to call her own.
by Fabiola Santiago
And so I stand by my machete.
I may be an amateur, but I wield an instrument sharpened by my father was right about was his beautiful hibiscus hedge. The only things. I enjoy the developer than saving thing he was that I can take any credit other planted to shed along them. These sturdy beauties thrive in Florida weather. Only thing he was his house and the dollar weed and I once how to use it was a fan of the leaves before it wisely. Despite them from expert opinion on climate change?
I can at eye level.
Or pick the bounty with a thud on the ground, I could hear my hands.
In the machete landed safely with Mother and I get to bring cats, and we sometimes get to change an out of its way, lizards, wanded safely without a second the machete high in search of our thickening a ladder so I could head, and ant colonies in the machete high in search of delicacies in that separates life from injury, wisdom from Heaven: “Amateur. I missed thought down the plantain the machete flew out of flowers."
I can saving them. These sturdy beautiful hibiscus hedge. These sturdy beautiful hibiscus to trim.
I stand by my father planted to shed all bad news in the developer than say that require little maintenance, at least from experience had a heated all bad news in the genuine process of growth and found him mercilessly whacking away at his beauties thrive in Florida weather with the back fence had a heated argument when I arrived at his house and I once how to use it wisely.
Rick Scott is a douchebag.