OK. Here we go. Just crank up the throttle. Wait for it. Wait for ittttt. There she goes. There she….sputters. This, the snail of all throttles, is akin to slapping an Accelerate button on some crooked crutches. Looks like .0001 miles-per-hour is all she’s good for.
On one hand, maybe it’s good this is so slow. My dad lopped off a finger doing this. At the age of 5, I thought the whole meat-off-the-bone ordeal was thrilling and fascinating. You know, until I started gagging and throwing up horror.
Fascinating until it’s horrifying. Hmm. Also applies to rollercoasters, losing one’s virginity, parenting, and, well, life.
Oh snap-a-branch! That was close. Death by twig shrapnel has to be an awful way to die. Awful but at least interesting. Fascinatingly horrible. It has to be substantially cooler than death by toddler rage or death by inexplicably falling piano or death by something really boring like, like, like drowning in a kitchen sink while the house is on fire. Limbs being crushed by limbs has a painfully hilarious irony to it.
All those incredibly realistic scenarios of perishing must have taken a solid hour to dream up. Hooray for distraction. Concern for the way you think. Surely I’m almost finished out here. Surely I’m just about done. Surely- Crap. Reckon at this rate I’ll be finished half past never.
What’s with the country bumpkin talk? Your inner dialogue sounds like the runt in a fourth generation of inbred farmers.
Shit fire! That was right mean.
Again. You and all the proving of the points against the self.
Whatever. Just need something to keep busy. Maybe a round of Things I Rather Be Doing?
Answer: All Things.
Well that was a bummer of a lightning round.
Lightning! I should probably pay more attention. I’m butchering this job, carving a giant lightning bolt when plain, old stripes would do. God, remember when you dated that boy. He shaved your initials in his hair with something that looked like male genitalia but was supposedly a heart and arrow. Cupid’s balls all tattooed into his scalp. What a shame you ditched him before his hair grew out and covered all that shame.
Oh, those were the times. You used to do this in your mom’s front yard in a bikini. A bikini. In public. I’d have punched you in the nose had I been your chubby neighbor. 15 was not a good year for you. 15-year-old you needs you to kick her ass.
Ugh. Now the itch I can’t scratch. My nose. My nose is itching with the fire of a thousand wool-covered feathers! I, I can’t move my hands. I, I hate everything.
Ah. Tree bark’ll do. Sometimes heavy bleeding about the face regions is the best bad option.
Bored. Bored. Boring. Bored. Bordisimo! Boredanese. Borrrrrrrrrred.
That dog has to be strategically placing her poo. It’s a stinky, stinky landmine.
Wait.I pet I could train my dog to do this, like that dopey looking YouTube bulldog who flips 180-half-double-quad-pike-turns on a skateboard.
Forget it. She’s chewing on a brick with her dumb little eyes crossed and stuck looking at her nose.
Annnnnd yep. Horrifying.
Worm. I will shred you tiny serpent! I will back up and shred you again! I’ve read a bunch about twisted youth taking out their sick abuse on innocent animals. This makes perfect sense. I’ve always suspected I was a serial killer.
Oh to pass the time. To pass the time. To pass the…Music! Duh. I’ll sing me a good something.
Damn it feels good to be a gangsta. Feedin’ the poor and hepin out wit they bills. Yeah, I was born in Jamaica. Now I’m all up in the U.S. makin’ dealz.
The lyrical stylings of the Geto Boys. Pretty genius. More genius if they was all up in the U.S. makin’ me a snack.
Sweet Soil & Succatash! Stop licking air and close that mouth. Some dirt to the teeth is just what you needed.
Well I’ll be. You are a feisty ring-tailed tooter talkin’ at me that way.
Oh, the twangy brain monologue again? Brilliant. Really. And by “brilliant” I mean straight out of the boondocks.
Straight outta Compton, you mean. Damn it feels good to be a gangsta. Cuz them- Don’t you love the way this gasoline smells? Almost better than onions. Almost.
Ugh. I irritate myself.
Right into the gate. I ran this slow-moving, gas-farting piece of junk right into the gate. Which reminds me, I’ve meant to take a little look-see at what’s going on over here.
Stop. Stop that. You lack the physical prowess required to scale a privacy fence. Of course you also lack the common sense to understand what a privacy fence is for. You-
Maybe I could holler at that neighbor boy to grab a heel and a cheek and give a sister a push. I heard people talking about the grass and it being all greener on the other side and I mean to find out. Well, about the grass and what it is that sneaky lady next door’s been doing.
I’m up! Elbows holding on to wooden planks for funny bone’s life! It’s… it’s… it’s fascinating. It’s emerald as Oz and thicker than a hippie’s armpit hair. It’s a Miracle… Gro.
I’m horrified. I’ve been shaving this dirt pit of a bald backyard. Tom told me not to do it. I weave and crash and dig and maim things. I remember some pot head kid outside the mall. He wore some tacky shirt that read “I wish my lawn was Emo so it would cut itself”. Tom won’t be home for hours. Hours and hours and then he’ll see this lightning bolt-cupid’s balls- upside-down-pineapple work of disaster. I’m tacky hoping my lawn was a gold-diggin’ wife so it would artificially augment itself.
Crap. And the baby is up from a nap on cue. Ha! Maybe he could fix this. Hmm. Or maybe…
Damn it feels good to blame a toddler. He speakin’ jibberish and hepin’ out wit the yard work when I be bored. Yeah, he was baked in my womb, yo. Now he a scapegoat for effin’ up dem chores.
Thus concludes the tick-by-tock-by-hum-and-buzz-and-sputter thoughts of a woman mowing the lawn.
Fifteen square feet of grass.
One rusty push-mower.
Half a brain.
What does the inside of your head sound like at any given moment?