My Weed Whacker Fucking Rules

Know what’s better than murdering shrubbery in stifling, 99 degree heat?  Hint:  The correct answer is “everything”.  Well maybe not everything, but it’s too close to make an issue out of it.  At 7am yesterday morning, my wife and I groomed the fuck out of our front yard and it was as exciting as it sounds.  Actually, I kind of have a sick love for yard work and the front of the house looks amazing, so it wasn’t that horrible, but, Jesus Christ, whatever happened to April showers?

(It just occurred to me that April Showers is very likely the name of a porn star who gets paid to piss a lot.)

The economy sucking as much as it has, I was forced to fire our gardener last January.  I found out yesterday (it turns out that if you spend an entire morning in your front yard all of your neighbors will come over and say hello and remind you that humans weren’t meant to be working in this heat) that for pretty much the entire time he was taking care of our yard, he was hitting on neighborhood girls in fairly inappropriate ways.  One of our neighbors calls him Sleazy Gardener Guy.  So we won’t be hiring him back when we have money again.

Anyway, we have an old-school lawn that changes from green to not-really-green-at-all in the winter and it stops growing as fast.  Since firing the gardener, I’ve mowed the lawn once and prior to that the last time I did actual yard work was easily twenty years ago.  I’d forgotten all about the part where my allergies go haywire and I want to remove my head and put it in the fridge for an hour.  I spent the entire day sneezing and blowing my nose and I woke up this morning still congested and itchy-eyed.

Boffo.

But, the front yard really needed work and we have people coming into town this week and we want the place looking nice.  So we kept at it until about 11am at which point we were both dehydrated and five minutes away from dying of heat stroke.  So we decided to stop.

We spent the rest of the day doing chores that didn’t require baking until we were a nice, golden brown, and then when the sun finally started to fuck off for the night, I finished the last bits of sweeping, watering, and sneezing.  I worked my fucking ass off yesterday.  I worked harder yesterday than I have every day at this job combined, and I wasn’t resentful for even half a second.  And my complexion is suspiciously healthier than it is after a day of working in an office.

So I’ve decided to become a gardener.  Specifically, I’ve decided to become my gardener.  I just have to find a way to talk myself into paying me $50K a year and I’ll be good to go.

The moral of the story?  My weed whacker fucking rules.

About

Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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