My Hammies Are Killing Me!

Hey, where did all the grass go? No, seriously. A couple of weeks ago the big shot at this joint was out and about with the Yardboy 2000, bagging and tagging all the green for pickup. Now there's nothing but a sea of orange, brown and red out there. Not that it isn't beautiful, don't get me wrong, but based on what I overhear the head guy saying, the Yardboy won't make a dent. It's back to old fashioned raking for him.

That's not to say he doesn't crack out the Bigblaster Leafmaster XL for backup. You should see him with it. He's like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters the way he shoots at those things. But he's got no style, no rhythm. It's like watching a mini-tornado hit the yard. He doesn't understand the delicate dance with nature that it needs to be. If he's lucky, he just blows a few into the yard of the old lady who lives behind us. But she talks to the birdbath, so she'll never know. You've got to leave this kinda thing to a furry little mind like mine. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. I decided to take the same approach to de-leafing the yard. Insert spinning clock here with an overlay of my determined little face.

An hour and a half later, if I never see another dead leaf again it would be too soon. I swear, in looking back I think I moved all of like 12 leaves. And one gust of wind took care of that (darn you, stupid wind gust)! I don't know if you've ever tried it, but picking up leaves is not as easy as it looks. Every muscle in my body hurts - and that's saying a lot for a guy with muscles the size of rubber bands. They all fall so easily, so why not pick up easily too? I don't know who invented trees, but they apparently used prison rules when doing it.