Last weekend I was using the ample weekend to get some crap done around the house. My list included sitting around in my jammies and watching tv, sitting around in my pjs and playing video games, humping your mom, and cleaning up all the leaves in the yard. Every year the goddamned trees make like two girls with one cup and shit all over my yard. Except none of the trees has the decency to eat their leavings, the sanctimonious, prudish bastards.
So there I am, out in the yard with the leafblower cleaning up tree shit when what should I find when I blow away a pile of leaves? Real shit. Turns out our yard is the high-traffic interstate interchange of the neighborhood. Cats can quickly go from one side of the neghborhood to the other by cutting through our yard, and apparently, squat a monster kibble-log while they’re at it. Which makes my yard remarkably similar to the Baltimore beltway, now that I think about it.
And so I stand there, staring at this revolting tootsie roll of foods past, and think to myself, “Fuck if I’m cleaning up that shit.” So with all the grace and skill of a ninja brain-surgeon I blow a single leaf, bright-red-side up, over the poop like the leaf is one of nature’s own traffic cones. “Watch out! Don’t drive there! There’s doody under that!” I guess that’s the analogy I’m making. Whatever. Shut your stupid face-hole.
I go back to blowing leaves around, blowing air under piles of leaves so that the tops of the piles don’t move but the other side of the pile explodes with deciduous detritus; or making little tornadoes of leaves in the wind that would give that freaky kid from American Beauty a raging hard-on, and then suddenly: more turds.
These were a bit more substantial, and definitely hadn’t originated from a cat. Or, if they had originated from a cat, that cat was probably pushing close to 50 pounds and was making it’s way around on a miniature Rascal. In that case, the cat wouldn’t have been able to make it through the gaps in the fence, so it’s highly unlikely. Also, I’m pretty sure they don’t make tiny Rascals. And cats probably lack the currency or insurance policy to be able to afford one. While pondering tiny cats on electric three-wheeled scooters I blew another leaf on top of the lawn land-mine and fancied myself the Princess Diana of my backyard.
I finished the leaves in the middle of the yard and began to concentrate on the edges, and like before, I was quickly interrupted by more shit. I was hardly phased at all this time; I just flicked the leafblower towards a stray leaf and deftly marked the offending area.
But this leaf-covering solution is just a stop-gap measure. The only reason I was cleaning up the leaves is because I needed to mow the lawn. And if I mow the lawn with the yard-bombs still intact I’ll splatter-paint the inside of my lawnmower like Jackson Pollock after a Chipotle Grilled Stuft Burrito at Taco Bell. Oh, and by the way Taco Bell, could you really not afford all the letters it takes to spell “stuffed”? Or were you trying to ride the ridiculous wave to Web 2.0 glory, acting like you’re the flickr of the fast food world? Well I’ve got news for you douches: the only wave you’re riding is the brown wave of the feces tsunami erupting from your customer’s backsides after they make a cheek-clenching dash to the closest bathroom, trashcan, or Taco Bell drive-through. I hate you.
So I’m at an impasse. I don’t even like seeing my OWN shit, so I’m not really at all excited about cleaning up something else’s shit. Which is why the shit is still in the yard and the lawn will be mowed in the spring.
