Mowing My Weedgrassdirt

So the other day I went outside to mow my weedgrassdirt. I was raised on weedgrassdirt. My father mowed weedgrassdirt. His father before him mowed weedgrassdirt. It's part of my family heritage. It's in my blood.

Now I've seen lawns that are just grass (no weeds anywhere), and I've often wondered, I wonder what that kind of life is like. I imagine that people who have purely grass lawns must be the same people who actually clean their barbecue grills and buy those expensive cookies on the top shelf at the grocery store. They're really the closest thing that our country has to royalty.

Even if I wanted to turn my weedgrassdirt into pure grass, I couldn't do it. First, it would mean additional manual labor, and that's just not gonna happen. Second, it would mean using deadly poisons to kill the weeds, and Jodi won't let me do that. The reason Jodi won't let me do that is because she likes birds, and she doesn't like the fact that three-quarters of the birds that come into our backyard are blind mutant birds due to other people in the neighborhood using deadly poisons to get rid of their weedgrassdirt.

That's okay. I'm fine with weedgrassdirt. I was never cut out to be royalty anyway.

So I started to mow the first third of my lawn while blind mutant birds from the neighborhood flew helplessly into the side of my garage.

I have to mow my lawn in thirds. Why? Al Gore.

Al Gore made me buy an electric mower instead of gas-powered mower. Unfortunately, modern technology has not advanced to the point where we can create an electric mower that can finish an entire yard in one sweep. So far, our technology only allows us to create blind mutant birds.

Just after mowing a few strips of my weedgrassdirt, our old lady neighbor stopped by to chat for a few moments. Nice lady. Her adult son still lives with her. I wouldn't really go so far as to say he looks after her. In fact, one day, this old lady was sick with the flu. Her son, who does not drive, came over to our house and asked me to drive him to Kentucky Fried Chicken so he could get his mom something to eat. (Note #1: In the south, KFC is considered healthy food for sick people. And gravy is an aphrodisiac.) So he literally squeezed into the passenger seat of my very small old VW Beetle and off we went to KFC. (Note #2: Many people in the south do not fit easily into an old VW Beetle.) He bought the food, we drove back, he thanked me, and he returned to his house to nurse his mom back to health with some extra crispy, extra greasy chicken and a tub of mashed potatoes... The next week, the old lady was feeling better and thanked me for driving her son to KFC so he could get himself something to eat.

The old lady and I talked for a minute or two, and then down the street came an elderly guy on a little motor scooter. Helmet, goggles, stickers -- the whole shabang. I have no idea if this guy was drunk, high, crazy, or all of the above. But apparently, as he was driving down the road, he had been having a conversation with himself and the voices in his head told him to stop and merge our conversation with his. He pulled over, stopped right next to us, slipped off his helmet, and continued with the conversation he'd been having with himself for God only knows how long. I had trouble making out most of the words, although I think some of them were English. Some of it had to do with how old people should be treated in rest homes. I think he might have been an escapee. He was probably the Steve McQueen of Shady Acres Nursing Home or something.

You see, the good thing about living in the south is that sometimes people just stop to chat. And the bad thing about living in the south is that sometimes people just stop to chat.

Well, this guy finally finished his verbal manifesto after about 10 minutes, and just as suddenly as he arrived, he slipped on his helmet and rode off into the sunset. As he drove away, I noticed that the license plate on his scooter was a Bible scripture. I don't remember which scripture it was, but it was probably from one of the gospels, where Jesus says to the apostles, "Take this bread and git 'r done! Just git 'r done I tell ya! Just git 'r done for Jesus! WOOOOOOOO! Nascar rocks! WOOOOOOO!"

Even the old lady thought he was nuts. There was really nothing left to say, so she went back to her deep fried domicile, I finished mowing the first third of my weedgrassdirt, and the blind mutant birds continued flying into the side of my garage.