...that is the question.
Heck no! I won't mow! But I must. The lawn, it beckons, yet it mocks me so, with it's promise, nay threat, of exposure to sunshine, and my own sweat.
And I'm out of beer. Alas, alack.
The wife will mock me, cruelly, I fear. I said I would do it at noon. Had stalwart plans. Best lain, they were. Started drinking beer, even, to prepare. Alas, again, the elixer has fled, and I am bereft, and the lawn wiggles it's amusement in the soft, spring breeze.
I might rush out and stomp on it some, and brandish the spray bottle of Round-Up in a threatening manner. Shudder, lawn. A lawn needs to know it's place, and keep in it.
I can come out and behead you all, in a trice, and you had better know it, lawn.
I had best get it done soon, before loonies give my lawn Human Rights. I hear some wasteland of a European country gave apes Human Rights, today, because they resemble human DNA at 95% or so. Well, Chlorophyll is only different from human blood in one tiny respect, when you compare the chemistry side by side.
Soon, the lawn will get the vote. Murder all the infants you want, but keep off of the grass.
Dammit, I had best go out and oppress it, while I still can.