How to Use Your Lawn to Prove You Matter After All
by Buster Guru
Let’s say you are a somewhat bitter sixty-two year old man wearing droopy beige Dockers who always smells like Old Spice and ever-so-slightly of shit and who talks back encouragingly to Rush Limbaugh on the radio.
And let’s say that when holidays roll around your family gets you ties with Looney Toons characters on it or Fruit of the Loom underwear or barbecue aprons that say “Keep Away! I’m Grilling!” because they think it’s so funny. And you always snort out a fake laugh like you’ve been doing for thirty-six years but what you would really like to do is slam your goddamned crusty elbow into their necks and go see some teen ass at the strip club up the road.
Let’s just say that to get it out.
Here’s the big question you have to ask yourself: what do you do now that you’ve completely failed to achieve any of the dreams you had when you were young and alive and now it’s way too late no matter what your AARP magazine says?
You’re never going to be the CEO so you can get head on your private jet from the Marketing Department interns.
Your son will never respect you, in part because you called him the biggest mistake you ever made when he was fourteen and that’s what got him hooked on PCP, and in part because you’ve never been all that great at anything. No, Walter, those wooden ducks you carve are not all that great.
You’ll never sing “Mack the Knife” onstage in Vegas, your grandkids fear you because you smell like of Old Spice and ever-so-slightly of shit and you talk like you’ve got a gravel road stuck in your throat, and you and senile Bob next door who claims he is originally from Idaho are the only ones who think you’re witty enough to have your own ultra-right-wing radio show.
Furthermore, even perpetually drunk forty-eight year old women named Marge who smoke Chesterfields and talk like dead people have stopped checking you out, and if you really believe that MILF with her six-year-old at the 7-11 was checking you out I hate to break it to you but she was wondering who gave you that Daffy Duck tie because she thought it would be funny to give her dad one too.
So what do you do?
You do your lawn, Alfred.
And you do it well.
Because lawns are the great green American redeemer.
American’s spend over $11 billion on lawn-care yearly, and they’re all either 62-year somewhat bitter Dittoheads like you, or they’re 66-year old even more bitter Dittoheads who prefer navy blue Dockers and Brut, or they’re younger guys who already deep-down know they’ll never even own their own Starbucks so they can fuck the Goth-girl baristas and are instead doomed to listen to Rush Limbaugh and build model railroads when they’re older.
But a nice lawn changes everything, and what’s more, a really nice lawn really changes everything.
Let me tell you the powerful, moving and also touching story of Harold, who also believes all faggots deserve AIDS like you do and who lives two doors down from me.
Harold spent most of his adult life consuming Schlitz beer and working in a factory that produced stapler parts. At first he worked on the follow spring line, and then he was promoted to Anvil Quality Checker, and then he was promoted to the purchasing department. (See “What are the Parts of a Stapler” for a deeper understanding of follow springs and anvils.) His wife was and still is fat.
The three times I ever spoke with Harold because I didn’t have my cell phone with me to fake I had a phone call, Harold told me that when he was nineteen, he could throw 97 mile per hour fastballs all day and he should’ve been in the majors.
Harold also told me he had invented sticky notes long before the goddamned things were actually invented and he should’ve patented the goddamned things, made his million and retired with three goddamned Mexican hookers in Acapulco.
But here comes the powerful, moving and touching part of the story: he never got around to playing baseball in the majors, and he never got around to patenting the goddamned sticky notes and moving to Acapulco with the whores.
I know this sounds like a movie but it’s true.
Instead he got the job in the stapler parts factory, at some point he started wearing the Dockers and Old Spice like you, and that’s where he feels like he wasted basically his entire life. (He did try to tell me about a Mexican hooker who gave him head in a Chicago taxi cab, so there were some bright spots amidst his darkness.)
Anyway, there is a happy ending with an obvious moral to the story, because around your age Harold transferred all of the pointlessness of his life and his pain and anger at having a fat wife who loves soap operas and Funyuns into his lawn.
And after George Birkson’s lawn – George was even older and had of course lost a leg in the war and so he always pinned up one of his brown Docker pants’ legs – Harold’s lawn was the brightest, greenest, most manicured, most dandelion-free, most watered and most Jobe’s-Fertilizer-Spiked in the entire neighborhood.
Even after Harold had that heart attack and died right there in the anal aisle of the Peepers Adult Books n More, his lawn pretty much stayed that green and pristine for several summers thereafter, and people would drive by and not notice it.
And so by now I am sure you know what I am saying:
Although you probably have done so already, it’s time to pull up your beige Dockers and adjust those Fruit of the Looms for the sixteenth time today and get out there in your yard. But first call and trust TruGreen, who are dedicated to working hard to “make your lawn greener and more weed-free and give you more time to enjoy it,” and then get out there in your yard.
Spread that Kentucky blue grass like you should’ve spread your seed in all of the hot Marketing Department interns you would’ve hired in the highly successful tropical fruit importing business you never owned.
Mow that lawn like you’re mowing the goddamned little testicles off those English major hippie liberal left-wing San Francisco treat scumbags in Washington, D.C. who screwed up your chances to own Rhode Island.
Hose abundantly, Henry!
Chemicalize that crabgrass, Cliff, and pulverize those plantain weeds, Percy!
You do matter, you are somebody, you and Rush are indeed right about everything, and the greener your lawn the more you prove it.