Today while drawing Venn diagrams as part of my typical brainstorming before writing a Sammy Sportface blog, I was rudely interrupted – yet again – by the ferocious roar of four lawnmowers running pell-mell in my yard.
The grass cutters were back. Every three days they come by unannounced and cause county-wide noise pollution and cut my grass in six minutes.
This time I had couldn’t stand it anymore, being taken, being abused, feeling powerless and attacked, and headed toward bankruptcy.
“Hey, no cut grass today. No need. You cut 3 days ago.”
“We cut grass,” said one of the four grass-cutters all of whom were born someplace in South America. “We cut bush. We cut tree. We cut flower.”
“No cut grass,” I say. “Grass already cut. You no cut. No cut flower.”
The South American quartet pay me no mind. They keep cutting as if I’m not even there, as if I had not said anything to them.
“Who asked you to cut grass?”
“You wife. She tell us to cut.”
“Did she tell you to do it every three days?”
“She say cut grass.”
“Who’s your boss?” I ask.
“We all boss,” one says. “Hey, Fat Man, you got watta? Need four glasses. Full glass.”
“Watta for whatta? It takes you six minutes to cut my grass. That can’t make you thirsty.”
“Get us watta, Fat Man. You too fat to cut grass and flower.”
“What country you from?”
“Americano isn’t a country.”
“We cut grass. We cut flowers.”
The mowing stops. They’re done. I get handed another invoice for their services. It will go on top of the stack of unpaid invoices from the Americanos.
“You sucka,” he says. “You stupid American.”
The four climb in their truck and drive away, all giggling. They yell out the windows.
“You sucka. You stupid American. You stupid Fat Man. Ha Ha. We come back three days. Ha Ha Ha.”
Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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