Don't mess with my melons

Jay Thomas, never one to limit himself to one sole occupation or interest, added yet another credit to his resume this summer - farmer. Jay single-handedly took a 5" by 2" plot of earth in a backyard in Astoria, New York and did what his forefathers did before him; he tilled that soil and brought forth for his family food, maize and melons. "I do it all for my woman" Jay seemingly grunted, one hot July, as he cracked open a cold brew after several minutes of hard weeding and trimming, "when she eats this delicious melon, man, she'll be mine forever." But it was not to be as mankind doesn't respect a man's melons as in days gone by and Jay came home today to find his prize cantaloupe, which he had been lovingly cajoling into ripening for days, perhaps weeks, savagely chopped down. "Who could have done such a thing?" Mr. Thomas cried, "My MELONS . . . my prize melons . . . "


Mr. Thomas suspiciously eyed the landlord as the old Italian mans grapes lay untouched.