Dear God, whichever one of you is listening…

I need to know. It’s very important. I know you’re big on the whole moves in mysterious ways thing, but we are talking about life and death. Did Satan invent weeds and you invented the shake inducing bio mechanical symbiont known as the weed eater? Or did you make them together and have a chuckle behind the moon afterward? You fucks. And what’s the deal with the fact that there is no shoulder strap included with this weed eater? The answers to these questions, whatever they may be, have collided and left my right arm shaking so bad I almost took my eye out when I went to scratch the top of my head. I may not be able to wank tonight, either. Or grab my beautiful girlfriend’s breast in a manner that wouldn’t make her think I thought it was one of those pens on a chain at the bank. If I try to give her a back rub after the day’s hard work, she will ask, “Why are you knocking on my back like it is a door and you are the most urgent Jehovah’s Witness ever?”

Why can’t the lawnmower get it all? Why wasn’t it designed to be a ball of blades and lasers that destroys the “ugly” plants? Home ownership has been awesome: First, the shower didn’t get hot. Now, the weeds and the weed eater are colluding to give me Dumbledore’s Last Hand (nerd reference, go watch Harry Potter or just pretend you know that Dumbledore’s hand is really messed up toward the end). At the least, if there was no way to get past this weed + weed eater thing, how about, I don’t know, beautiful naked ladies in the sky, singing songs I love, and pouring beer in a perfect downward arc and into my smiling mouth? Or unmessy orgasms as I go. Maybe every time I do a “section” of yard, POOF, Orgasm!

You know what? That might be a bit too much to ask for. What if the yard was just perfect. Forever. And maybe every once in awhile, I’d pay tribute by pouring a 40 in the corner by the shed in a never moving fat gnome’s mouth? I could go on and on. No, wait, I can’t because my hand just died and something funny is happening. I can’t feel my shoulder now. Just typing with the left now. Tingle in my left eye. Oh. That’s the strok…