Tongue-In-Cheek … Foot-In-Mouth

It just isn’t fair.  I kill myself to have a good lawn.  I fertilize; I mulch; I seed; I sow; I’m busy with the lime all the time.  You name it and I do it, double, in triplicate!  BUT my lawn still looks like it had been descended upon by a tribe of terrorist goats wearing oversized cleats.  However, my neighbor, who DOES NOTHING to enhance his lawn, well, other than riding his lawnmower around while drinking beer and relieving himself on his lawn, yet he has a yard so thick and plush I would not be surprised to see Tarzan swing by on a vine.

So, I did the only thing a self-respecting suburban lawn owner who does not know what he is doing could do: call the guy, in this case, “the guy” was the landscaper, who had a truck with his name stenciled on the side, a crew, and loads of lawn landscaping crap: hoses, masks, gas-powered this, that, and the other thing, seed, sod, and body odor …lots of body odor (PeeeeUUUwwww)

And let’s be honest here: plumbers, electricians, landscapers, if they have a truck with their names on it, you are at their mercy, because you obviously have NO idea what you are doing because you had to call them, and because they have a truck with their name on it they MUST know what they are doing.  So, whatever they tell you to do—you lawn owning moron—you WILL do without questions or without concern for your bank account.  And you will gladly pay them more than they deserve and like it because you are a lawn owning moron at their mercy.

Anyway, so the guy came over.  He stepped out of his truck, looked at me, looked at my lawn, and started walking around.  He poked at this, dug at that, smelled here, touched there, and then he turned and started to walk back to me.  I knew things were going downhill fast because he was slowly shaking his head from side-to-side.  He approached me, stopped, put his arm around my shoulders, and began slowly walking me towards my wallet.

“Mr. Drury.”

“Yes…er…a…the guy?”

“We’ve got a real problem here.”

“We do?”

“Yes.”

“It’s bad?”

“Bad.”

“Very bad?”
“Horrible, worse that I had originally thought.”

“Give it to me straight: how much time does my lawn have?”

“About two, maybe three, but I’m optimistic.”

“Really?”

“You give me enough money and enough time and I can bring her around.”

“Do you really think so?  I mean you’re not kidding me, are you?”

“No.  Me and my crew can do it.”

“Okay, then go for it.”

Gee, swell, now I have to tell my wife, the poor woman.  So, I walked into the kitchen, over to her; I smiled, gave her a hug, and kissed her on her cheek.

“Okay, what’s wrong?  Are the kids okay?  Your parents?  My parents?  The dogs?  The car, that’s it, you wrecked the car, didn’t you?”

“No, no, nothing like that, much worse.”

“MUCH WORSE!  Okay, Billy, tell me, tell me NOW!”

“Brace yourself: we have grubs.”

“What?”

“We have grubs.”

“Grubs?”

“And root rot.”

“Root rot?  What are you talking about?”

“The landscaper guy told me, and it will cost us roughly three billion dollars to take care of it.  But it’s only money and to have a great lawn, I will pay any price.”

Unfortunately, my wife probably, much like your wife, was not too overly excited about the amount of money required to fix our fescues, technical term for “grass.” So I resorted to the only other thing I could come up with: ride my lawnmower, drink beer, and relive myself on my lawn.  And boy does it ever look good.  Yes, sure, I hear the occasional slurred word and burp coming from the lawn, and occasionally pieces of grass can be seen staggering and falling flat on their faces, but it sure does look thick and plush.

Anyway, I have to go.  I can hear Tarzan “OYOYOYOIYOIYOOOOOO-ing” over by my rhododendron.  And I’m guessing that he and his pet chimp “Cheetah” will be swinging in for a visit anytime now.