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Sherman’s March To The Curb

Image by Markus Distelrath from Pixabay 

This week I made the odd transition from disinterest in lawns and grass and weeds and the like to one of intense paranoia. A paranoia brought on by a notice from the code enforcer, asking that we clean up the curb or else. I was not aware that the curb was bad. I spend an inordinate amount of time in my head, and there are no weeds in this head, I assure you.

I spoke to my lawn people about this matter and they said they would oblige. They didn’t. So I, to paraphrase a great man, “being an all-American boy, seeing something that needs done, and unable to find someone to do it for him, goes ahead and does it.”

I tore at the weeds, the way one would tear out the pages of a diary after being humiliated by a crush. Then they were sprayed. Not throughly enough.

They sprung up again! These things were growing like young children you don’t see very often and then are surprised at how they have grown.

After a paranoid week of watching them peek over the curb and keeping a wary eye on our brick street for the coming of the Code Man. This morning! Just now in fact!

I alighted from my domicile with the fury of Attila the Hun! I took clippers, the sword of the vegetation obsessed, and I cut and pulled at the offending greenery. And then, wand of poison in hand. I drenched the land. Leaving in the wake of passing a coating that would look to the passerby like a recent rainfall. The Masque of Red Death passing from crack to crack. Sherman’s march to the curb.

I now sit alone in my office, writing these wartime memoirs. Saddened at what I have become. I await the weeds who will come for vengeance.

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