Pain in the Grass
I know it's Spring because I heard my first ass talking about his lawn today. In the gym I overheard someone telling his buddy of his concerns about crabgrass preventer application, and what would happen if he put it down too soon...and I thought to myself "what happened to you that made this the most exciting thing you have to talk about right now?"
As I may have mentioned before, I refuse to subscribe to the suburban male philosophy that the state of your lawn is a direct reflection of your position in the herd, mating potential and penis size. Having a perfect lawn doesn't mean that you have mastered your environment and should therefore be regarded as an alpha male. In fact it means that you're probably a sad fuck with no hobbies, friends or imagination. This doesn't mean, by the way, that my lawn is a patch of brown dirt, encrusted with dog faeces and liberally adorned with rusted bicycle parts. It just means that, for me, the bar is set at "mostly green, mostly flat, mostly grass, most of the time".
I'm not sure how people become lawn bores. Is in inherited? One of the "values" that parents instill? I'm guessing a lot of guys learned lawn care from their fathers but, let me assure you, that's no excuse. Regardless of the reason, though, it's clear to me that lawn season has arrived and I can look forward to a constant stream of TV commercials touting the benefits of fertilizers, pesticides and fungicides, and festooned with images of happy suburban families, rolling in the grass with the dog and grilling steaks under beautiful blue sky.
What I won't see, obviously, is the miserable bastard with pasty white skin trying vainy to start an eleven year old lawn mower that has received zero maintenance (not even oil) over its sad life. Nor will I see him trampling down mole runs and mowing over dried-out dog turds, or running away from the nest of yellow jackets that he just disturbed. That's the reality of lawn care and it sucks a multitude of arse.
The only thing worse than the lawn commercials, however, is the succession of "seasonal allergy" commercials where near-death sufferers are transformed by a small pill into dog-walkers, gardeners, soccer-game-watchers and backwoodsmen. The message is clear, however: if I want to roll in the lush grass with my perfect family, I'd better take Claritin/Zyrtec/Some Other Shit. Now.
About Mr. Bison
In case you're wondering, I'm an intelligent, unsophisticated male with a good job and the usual array of unhealthy appetites.
I spend significant amounts of my waking hours resisting the temptation to tell people what I really think. I can barely tell red wine from white, so don't bother explaining how the bouquet contains hints of blackberry and cat urine.
I believe that there is something very wrong with any man who doesn't like occasional porn.
I travel a lot and have learned that there are more assholes per square foot in airports than almost any other place on earth (exceptions include the studio where they film Oprah).
I grew up in England but I now live in the States and have no intention of going back, thank you very much.
If you look in my bathroom you'll find toothpaste and shaving cream. No skin lotions, unguents, mousses or any of that crap, which is as it should be.
I believe daytime TV is for the utterly brain-dead, having a good lawn does not mark you out as a superior human being and taking Lipitor doesn't mean you can make that seventh trip through the buffet line, lardboy. I know that cell phone company employees would sooner eat their own young than make customers happy.
I hate standing in line and game shows. I think hell would involve standing in line to watch a game show, listening to hip-hop and probably eating rice pudding.
I like rock music, American football, sushi, lifting weights, naked women, flying business class, single malt Scotch, Indian food, English breakfasts, quiet hotel rooms, having a laugh, snakes at the zoo, Quadrophenia, cream soda and cactus plants.
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