People with big ass cut grass yards think they’re still country, but they ain’t, with their zero turn mowers they hire a Mexican from Honduras to work half the time anyways, killing all the plantain and dandelions and buttercups, trying to make it all the same, nice and smooth and no questions ever asked, like a cop’s skull. That ain’t country; country is a frankensteined Snapper that can’t nobody but one guy who lives at a crossroads can fix, and even he wonders where the fuck you got it, even though he sold it to you (partial trade for some truck rims you had). Or better yet, country is struggling behind a “self” propelled push mower that’s had an existential crisis for at least a decade, and ain’t been self-propelled since before everything was Obama’s fault, because your yard’s too fucked, combination of hills and ruts and rocks and chunks of metal that the Snapper would just shatter into pieces (or at least the blade would) so you pick and choose your paths around the obstacles, like life itself, pushing the push mower like a fifty pound barbell that chops the earth sideways, choking out on chunks of month-long grasses, because who the fuck has time to be fucking around cutting grass unless the weather is bad, when you can’t cut it anyways? Country is finally cutting the yard in nine parts over thirteen days, and you probably should’ve already started over again, four days back, but you feel good about how that one spot looks, so you cruise up to the country store and get a big ol’ Gatorade, traditional orange or lemon lime, none of that antifreeze looking bullshit, and ride back with the windows down and air conditioning on full blast, feeling pretty damn good that none of your snooty ass neighbors are gonna judge your yard for at least 48 hours, maybe even 72.
No comments:
Post a Comment