Mowing the Lawn pt. 1

     You're mowing the lawn and it's going swell. This is one your favorite times of the week. You get to be alone, away from the kids and wife, the boss and office, the La-Z-Boy and SportsCenter...the banter of the anchors feels like it's drilling a hole in your wisdom teeth sometimes and you got your wisdom teeth out thirty years ago. That's how wretched you recognize the banter to be; it causes you to recount a painful event in your life when you had to have mouth surgery and big drills launching into your teeth like a fleet of Bobcats taking down an abandoned house.
     Yup, you love mowing the lawn. The lawn, the good ol' lawn, god bless your lawn. You pray at the alter of Scott and his premier lawn care products every night before you lay down to go to sleep and dream of counting sheep jumping over a fence as they sprint across a pristine, green field of grass. John Deere is in your Fav Five. Kentucky is your favorite state, not because of the basketball but because of the bluegrass and also bourbon, you love bourbon. You're mowing the lawn and it's just like any other time that you've ever moved the lawn, taking care of business as you like to call it when you are talking to yourself under your breath while you are mowing the lawn.
     All of a sudden, out of the blue, your lawn mower begins rattling and making strange noises that you have never heard it make before. These are the types of noises that a healthy lawn mower would never produce. These are the types of noises that make you text your therapist to check in with them but more to check in with yourself. These are the types of noises that cause you to take your baby (which is what you call your lawn mower) to the doctor and by doctor I mean Tom, the mechanic who lives down the block and has several NASCAR tattoos and poor decision making abilities. There was an ice sculpture of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes urinating Mountain Dew on Hobbes from Thomas Hobbes, the seventeenth century English philosopher, at Tom's fourth wedding which was actually in a tree house on the moon (the moon is what Tom calls his shared driveway). Tom had more Tiki torches than Tiki Barber leading a spelunking expedition in a musty cave off the coast of society in search of the crystal stalactite (the best Indiana Jones movie is the one with Tiki Barber). It mostly sounded like sod demons were attempting to make a grand escape from the grass catcher but it could have just been dust in the wind.
     You try to rip your hands off the machine but they are somehow still holding on to it, magnificently, magnetically pulled. You look up to see a galaxy of stars descend upon your head which is odd because it's not even night and where are all these stars coming from. You think that you hear a rip in the space time continuum but that may have just been you soiling your new checkered golf shorts which have moisture wicking technology, thank the golf gods (The Golf Gods is my favorite 300 style movie because you get to see what it would be like if John Daly inadvertently drove a golf cart into the pit of death.)
     You look down to see a gotdamn Velociraptor nuzzling up to your Jordans.

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