June 5, 2002

Mowing Disaster

The lawn needed to be mowed three days ago, and the past two days of rain have not helped the situation. Today I got an opportunity to attack the hayfield with disasterous results. The dead are stacked waist-deep on a blue tarp in the driveway and many more still lay where they fell, in green clumps moist with blood.

The grass was too wet to be mowed, and when I realized the futility of my task I went to mow the communal neighborhood turn-around instead. The grass was so long the mower cowered in fear and refused to start. What I needed was a scythe. A scythe with napalm.

Only then did I fully grasp the scope of my dilemma. The yard is too wet to mow, but if I wait any longer it will grow a coat as thick and lush as the one adorning the turn-around. I must mow now, I must, or the battle will be completely lost. If I wait I will need to call in an airstrike, which will require an elaborate explanation when my parents return from Durango:

Dane, what are all these craters doing in our yard?



Yeah, there were tons of ’em. Smart, too. They had guns and bureaucrats. Now we have craters.

Well, get rid of them. Put them in Matt’s yard or something.

So I mowed, and now our yard is a complete disaster. Pine trees smell delicious when you mow them down. I need to rake the driveway. The tarp-stack of dead was extremely heavy and required an exhausting drag down to the cemetery. It’s a good thing nature doesn’t have a cruel sense of humor, or she’d make grass out of steel. Not only would you pop discs while churning the compost, you’d have to push a smelter around the yard to mow the damn stuff. The suburban skies would darken and gutters would overflow with tailings.

I eventually found a solution for the turn-around that did not involve weaponry preferred by cloaked skeletons. I outfitted the mower with knobby monster truck tires, which raised the blade so high it could have clipped the bangs of Zeus atop Mount Olympus. With such retrofitting I danced in circles about the field, bringing sweet, sweet death to the lengthy leaves of grass.

Tomorrow: Clean-up. We’ve gotta make it look like nothing happened.

Help! I have an inflammatory disease and I’m stuck in this website. I haven’t seen the light of day all night.