Hey Mow!

I realized today, as I was cutting the grass for the first time this season, that I've chosen to take care of my lawn much like I've chosen to take care of my kids. Just as I could have hired a nanny to watch the kids, making my life a fuck of a lot easier, I could have bought a gas-powered mower, or even hired a lawn service, and made lawncare maintenance a piece of grassy cake. But instead of getting some boss, cherry riding mower, I chose this:



It's the "Scott's Classic," or as I like to call it, "The grASS Ripper." Sure, it produces absolutely no greenhouse gases or noise pollution, but, OH, how I pay for my environmental good deed. You know those football blocking sleds they have where you're supposed to plow into them and try to push them a foot or two while the shithead, alcoholic coach stands on the back of it and yells, "C'mon! My Gramma can block harder than that, Mahoney!"? Well, pushing the "Scott's Classic" is JUST like that, except there's no blocking sled or alcoholic coach and I'm not wearing football gear. And my name's not Mahoney. It really has nothing to do with football. Forget I mentioned it.

Basically, it takes more than twice as long to cut the grass, it doesn't do as good a job as a gas powered mower, and all my neighbors look at me like, "What a hippie dickhead." Well, they look at me like that anyway, but the "Scott's Classic" sure ain't helping matters.

The only real positive is that while I mow, I can listen to my iPod. That's basically the only time I can really listen to music. I can't listen when I work, because I can't write/edit with music playing. I can't listen in the car because... well, because I never drive anywhere. I work in the fucking basement. I try to listen to tunes with the kids, but they want to hear shit like "King Tut," 80 times. And I can't listen after they go to sleep because that's the time when the old lady and I sit around and complain about how fucking exhausted we are.

So I cut the grass. A lot. Actually, the old lady and I often fight over who gets to do it. That two hours pushing the ol' "grASS Ripper" is like a fucking spa getaway to Palm Springs. Except that after it's all over, instead of being relaxed and smelling like seaweed wraps and massage oil, my shoes are green.

Oh, one last note. Remember how I bitched the other day about moms bringing their kids over, unannounced, and basically dropping them off at our house? Today, one mom and two dads pulled that shit. Yeah, I know! It was a fucking weekend daycare center here today. Like all... fucking... day. The ballsacs on these people!

Sure, I watched them run around the yard all day, like the stand-up crabster that I am. But I did it from behind the wheel (er... 'bar') of the "grASS Ripper," with the iPod a-blarin'.

LAWNCARE!