Please Hammer. don't hurt 'em
Perhaps I've mentioned before that there are too many trees on my lot. In case I haven't, let me just say: Curse you, towering giants who drop your barren leftovers on my lawn! The amount of leavage is seriously staggering, in a "How the fuck will I ever keep up with this shit on my own?" kind of way. I've always been a bit of a tree humper hugger, but this year, I must admit that I've had more than one fantasy about a mad lumberjack having his way with these bastardly maples that have made my life more difficult than it needs to be. He'd clear cut my yard, and I'd appear on the porch with gratitude in my eyes and a pitcher of Logger lager for him to swill in his sweaty flannel. Hell, I'd even blow the guy if he'd promise not to yell "TIMBER!" when the sap started to run.
Alas, the man with the axe to grind never graced my yard, and I was left with enough dead leaves to hide the corpses of several dozen telemarketers. Unfortunately, the park frowns on impromptu backyard cemeteries, so I set about the task of raking and bagging. Now, let's be honest here: I'm not young anymore; I'm not in the best physical shape of my life. So I can generally fill about three or four of those big paper bags at a time; at that point, my back and my knees are whining like little bitches, crying like schoolgirls with burlap training bras. I'm working at it steadily, but it's not a quick process.
Last Friday, there was a little note on my door from the park, a cheerful missive reminding me that it would be awfully nice if I took pride in my home and pity on my neighbors and cleared my yard waste. I assume this meant leaves and branches, as I don't think anyone's caught me in the act of taking a crap on the porch (which I manage to do, by the way, with the utmost dignity and grace). So I kept at it all weekend, four bags at a time, with what I saw as steady progress from front to back of the lawn. When Monday rolled around, I was perturbed to find a new note from the park tucked into the handle of my door, a more formally stated Reminder of Rules, Motherfucker. At this point, I was being given until the 22nd to finish the job. Say what? As if I was supposed to have the whole job done in one weekend? Please line up to suck my spastic pucker. If they couldn't see that I was working on it and clearly making progress, then perhaps a slight draw on my sphincter could open their weaselly little eyes.
Tuesday morning, I was in the yard dancing the dance of passion with my rake when my next-door neighbor wandered over and asked if I'd heard what happened over the weekend. I had not, in fact, as I tend to keep my head up my own ass most of the time. As it turns out, early on Saturday morning, two guests of a neighbor right around the corner from my place had quarreled, and another neighbor drove past and spied one of the gentlemen knocking on doors with a hammer in his hand, and the other gentleman sitting on a porch with blood gushing out of his head. The police were called, and the hammer-wielding crackhead was tracked down by the K-9 unit, twitching in the woods behind the park. I have to say, I'm not usually freaked out about the idea of living alone, but I'll tell you one thing: from now on, if some guy I don't know knocks on my door and is carrying a hammer, I'm not going to assume that he's a handyman who's come to fix my garbage disposal.
As of now, I've racked up 30 giant bags of leaves from my yard, and there are still more where those came from (from those wretched trees). I seriously doubt I will have the lawn spotless by tomorrow, and I'm sure someone from the park office will be by to shake a fist at me and leave an even nastier note. At this point, though, I don't feel half bad about the yard debris. I am no longer The Biggest Scumbag in the Park. Thanks to MC Hammer's little performance last weekend, I can now point my finger down the street and say, with as much righteous indignation as I can muster, "Don't you people have something a little bigger to worry about right now?" Oh, I'm sure the fuckers will still fine me, but sometimes smugness is its own reward.
Alas, the man with the axe to grind never graced my yard, and I was left with enough dead leaves to hide the corpses of several dozen telemarketers. Unfortunately, the park frowns on impromptu backyard cemeteries, so I set about the task of raking and bagging. Now, let's be honest here: I'm not young anymore; I'm not in the best physical shape of my life. So I can generally fill about three or four of those big paper bags at a time; at that point, my back and my knees are whining like little bitches, crying like schoolgirls with burlap training bras. I'm working at it steadily, but it's not a quick process.
Last Friday, there was a little note on my door from the park, a cheerful missive reminding me that it would be awfully nice if I took pride in my home and pity on my neighbors and cleared my yard waste. I assume this meant leaves and branches, as I don't think anyone's caught me in the act of taking a crap on the porch (which I manage to do, by the way, with the utmost dignity and grace). So I kept at it all weekend, four bags at a time, with what I saw as steady progress from front to back of the lawn. When Monday rolled around, I was perturbed to find a new note from the park tucked into the handle of my door, a more formally stated Reminder of Rules, Motherfucker. At this point, I was being given until the 22nd to finish the job. Say what? As if I was supposed to have the whole job done in one weekend? Please line up to suck my spastic pucker. If they couldn't see that I was working on it and clearly making progress, then perhaps a slight draw on my sphincter could open their weaselly little eyes.
Tuesday morning, I was in the yard dancing the dance of passion with my rake when my next-door neighbor wandered over and asked if I'd heard what happened over the weekend. I had not, in fact, as I tend to keep my head up my own ass most of the time. As it turns out, early on Saturday morning, two guests of a neighbor right around the corner from my place had quarreled, and another neighbor drove past and spied one of the gentlemen knocking on doors with a hammer in his hand, and the other gentleman sitting on a porch with blood gushing out of his head. The police were called, and the hammer-wielding crackhead was tracked down by the K-9 unit, twitching in the woods behind the park. I have to say, I'm not usually freaked out about the idea of living alone, but I'll tell you one thing: from now on, if some guy I don't know knocks on my door and is carrying a hammer, I'm not going to assume that he's a handyman who's come to fix my garbage disposal.
As of now, I've racked up 30 giant bags of leaves from my yard, and there are still more where those came from (from those wretched trees). I seriously doubt I will have the lawn spotless by tomorrow, and I'm sure someone from the park office will be by to shake a fist at me and leave an even nastier note. At this point, though, I don't feel half bad about the yard debris. I am no longer The Biggest Scumbag in the Park. Thanks to MC Hammer's little performance last weekend, I can now point my finger down the street and say, with as much righteous indignation as I can muster, "Don't you people have something a little bigger to worry about right now?" Oh, I'm sure the fuckers will still fine me, but sometimes smugness is its own reward.
Katy Barzedor proclaimed this to be so at 8:45 PM
9 of you felt the overwhelming need to say somethin':
I'm just glad the HammerMan didn't hide in your leaf piles. Geez Bucky... when you gonna move out here?!
Good LORD! Are you SURE HammerMan didn't leave a dead body under your leaves?
You know, there is a nice little trailer park I know of in Illinois that doesn't have so many trees.
Perhaps when they come knocking on the door you should answer it while holding a hammer.
That used to be a very nice park. I hope that idiot's gone for good.
I thought the yard was looking pretty spiffy when I was there yesterday. Those turd-burglar park nazis had better leaf you alone now.
My dear Bucky, skip buying a new toy and go out and purchase a Black & Decker Leaf Hog. That machine sucks up the leaves, twigs, and whatevers and grinds them into little bitty bits and puts ‘em in a bag. And, it has two other benefits: it’s fun to play with and it makes so much noise that those turd-burglar park nazis will regret ever putting that note on your door. (Using it at 4:00m a.m. on a Sunday morning can be especially enjoyable).
If you have a lawnmower with a bag you can mow the leaves. That is what I do way easier than raking.
Eclectic - Well, since moving would take money...um, never? ;)
CKelli - Y'all have too many tornadoes for a trailer up your way!
Limpy - I think that's a splendid idea. I'll make it a blood-soaker hammer, just for effect.
Squirl - I hope they also booted the folks who had that idiot as a house guest. And so far, no new door notes from the park nazis.
SSNick - I looked up the Leaf Hog, and I am in love! It's not that expensive, either. You'd best believe I will own one of those before autumn.
Anon - Don't own a lawn mower, either! There's a guy who comes around in the summer and cuts it for ten bucks a pop.
Fucking lawn fascists! I'm not in the mood!
Invest in a leaf blower (preferably one with a silencer so the mission can be carried out under the cloak of darkness), distribute the leaves on other people's shit and commence leaving angry messages.
"Dear Leafy Bastard..."
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