I Fought the Lawn and

I kicked its ass.

I murdered innocent blades of grass for an hour. Then I got out the weed whacker and slaughtered the survivors. That only increased my desire to kill.

I decided to prune the shrubs.

I borrowed the neighbors' pruning shears. Coming home, I missed a step down their stairway and ended up with major road rash (stair rash?) on my left knee. Curt Schilling isn't the only Bostonian with a bloody sock, damn it. Blood just brought on... blood lust. Like a feeding frenzy for herbivores.

I pruned the shrubs. To put it another way: They no longer exist. They're a couple of gnarled stumps by my front steps, just in time for the house painters to work their magic. (I'm going to cremate the remains of the shrubbery in my new fire pit, a gift from The Saint.)

Even with the shrubs gone, I wasn't done killing. Turns out, when my neighbors made a trip to Home Depot a month ago, they bought me some weed killer. Long story there, but I'd requested it, they'd purchased it, and we'd both forgotten about it. After watching me slaying plants with various blades in the heat, the neighbors remembered that chemical weapons were also available. I used almost an entire bottle of Round-Up. Some of the weeds are already starting to wilt.

After three hours in the sun, I felt like Hemingway in the cheap seats at a bullfight... and wow, is that Sangria going down cold right now or what?

I almost, almost forgot how much I hate yard work.

Adam