Here’s more bad news: it’s not just dogs and cats and insects and fish and birds and killer whales who hate humanity. Vegetables hate us, too. In a way, that hurts more. Old ladies putter about in their gardens, farmers lovingly tend their crops, and when we celebrate our most romantic occasions, we want our plant buddies with us, so we rip off their arms and bring them along. How could they not like us? When John Wyndham’s subjects turn their stinging vines on humanity in his 1951 novel Day of the Triffids, their betrayal was understandable. After all, they were Soviet plants, born with
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