Gnomes and Genocide

So I finally got off my ass and mowed my yard when I got home from work today. After an hour I was passing over the front yard for the second time (the first was just to get it to knee level) and I made a discovery. Two actually.

One was that the tribe of yard gnomes had evolved at an accelerated rate and was now living in a metropolis instead of a group of huts. Where they got the materials, I don’t know. The second discovery came when I looked closer at their quasi-futuristic clothes. They were a familiar blue. Then I saw a United States Postal Service badge on one of them. That’s why I hadn’t gotten my mail in three days! They must have captured him and….well I don’t want to think too hard about what they did with him.

So I drove on and shuffled through my mind the pros and cons of what to do with this discovery. On one hand we had a very scary, possibly dangerous civilization that might someday evolve to rise up and overthrow humans. On the other hand….they were awfully cute. So I wondered what to do about my gnomes…….wait.

I don’t have any yard gnomes. My neighbors do. I quickly looked across the street to where their smiling faces usually stayed in her flower garden, and they were gone. I had refugee gnomes in my yard. Runaways. Deserters. I couldn’t have that.

So on my next pass I steered the Craftsman just a little to the left and was rewarded with the sound of three blades mulching an entire culture. Some may call me cruel for my actions, but they have to understand. What if the gnomes had decided to invade us? How could we, in good conscience, defend ourselves against such cute and lovable enemies? Could you? Could you take a shotgun to a cute little yard gnome, even if you knew that life and freedom hung in the balance? Well now you don’t have to make that decision. I have saved all of you good people out there the mental anguish of having to cut down one of these gnomes.

By my actions, you are now free to live your lives without a guilty conscience. You are all welcome.


*Disclaimer: Most of the above narration is a farce that was made up by the writer in a fit of exhaustion and should not be taken seriously. It did not take the writer two hours to mow the yard. The gnome part was real.

**No Postal workers were hurt while writing this blog

The Rich and the Amazon

I have come to understand why rich people get other, less wealthy people to do things for them. This epiphany came to me last week when I mentally shut down for a couple of days. After hearing from my wife, several times, that I needed to do the laundry and wash dishes or just clean the house I said to myself , “Self…there’s got be someone out there to do these kinds of things for me.” And I promptly answered, “There are. You just can’t afford them.” I then told myself to “get bent,” and after a couple minutes of arguing I apologized and we were both okay.

So I didn’t do a damn thing all week. Sue me. Working ten hours a day sucks and after awhile you just want to veg-out on the couch when you get home. I haven’t been able to even play golf for a couple of weeks. Hitting a little ball for hundreds of yards toward a little hole really does let you vent some steam and keeps some people from entering a DMV with a bow and arrow and taking hostages. (I live in Tennessee and some people can’t afford high-powered rifles or machine guns you rich bastards) I have attempted to write, but find myself mindlessly playing Spider Solitaire for hours instead. (When I win the next game I’ll quit and write….three hours later…when I win the next game I’ll quit and write)

My yard needs mowing like Hollywood needs to put out some good movies. (Desperately) I walked to the mailbox yesterday and stumbled upon a community of yard gnomes that had begun a rudimentary civilization in the corner of my lawn. I took this as a sign that I needed to fire up the Craftsman and get the grass low enough so that I can at least see the road. I can’t even tell who is pulling into my driveway anymore. My dog Al looks at me like I am crazy every time I let him into the backyard. He looks at me with those big brown eyes that say, “Dad…if I some jungle creature gets me and I don’t come back…it’s your fault.”

With all this to do, I find it even harder to write. While mowing the yard and washing dishes takes physical will, writing takes mental will that I have lacked for the last week. I had just wrung the rag dry and needed to get it wet again. (Innuendo given free of charge) So I will brave the jungle of my yard today and try to tame it enough to look presentable. Until I am rich enough to pay people to do it for me it remains my responsibility to keep it from the Amazonian quality that it is at this moment. If I don’t write again you will know that I have been taken hostage by a tribe of gnomes and that my mowing days are over.