in rural Paris, Iowa, and Wordpress

Santos, Save Us From This!

See that? Do you see that? I slammed on my brakes and quickly took a couple snapshots out the window of the truck to memorialize that which I otherwise would not have believed without seeing it. As proof for others that I had seen it. I violate my rule against more than one post per day to show it to you immediately. That is a lawn!

In a land that is for the most part free of the curse, as God himself has so blessed this land, a young couple has allowed a lawn to grow around their house . . . apparently without any compulsion whatsoever . . . voluntarily . . . because, as you can see, there is the poor bastard who owns it out on a Saturday afternoon tending to the fucker without a guard standing over him.

This is another view showing that the young couple has also allowed the thing grow around the side of their home, too. I considered for a moment reporting them to the authorities for wasting water, but my immigration papers are not in order. I therefore wish to keep my contacts with the authorities to a minimum lest I be deported. I would then be hauled north and dumped out where I would have to spend a good portion of the remainder of my life tending to a lawn. Nay, enslaved by a lawn because I do not have sufficient funds to hire some other poor bastard to take care of it for me.

There! There is a closeup of the thing. If you enlarge that photo, you can actually see the repulsive roil of it and at the same time the disquieting neatness of it. It reminds me of a slab of red meat utterly and totally infested with green maggots. To me the greenness of a lawn is as the whiteness of the whale was to Ahab. Yet, the whiteness of the whale did not grow. The greenness of a lawn grows relentlessly, implacably.

I admit that I am a lawnist. I detest that institution norteamericano–the lawn–more than I detest any other institution norteamericano. That is saying something because there are some other few institutions norteamericanos that I detest to an extent that would bring a catch to your breath.

I bitterly regret every single minute of my life that I devoted to lawn care and maintenance. The waste of it all. Oh, the horror of it all! To paraphrase Conrad . . . or maybe I am paraphrasing Kurtz. I wear garlands of rue, figuratively speaking, as did Ophelia, when the thought of it crosses my mind. Lawns destroyed all four of my marriages. More to the point, I could have been somebody had it not been for the lawns in my past.

As for this delightful looking young couple, next trip out there I shall advise them to call the concrete truck, pour over this green abomination, build a brick wall along the lot line, mortar in some broken glass along the top of that wall for security, and forget about it, as any sane person would do. Paraphrasing President Reagan–By the way, is that pyramid that we are building in His memory finished yet?–I shall raise my fist in the air and say, “Tear down this lawn and build a wall!”

All I have to do is figure out how to say all that in Spanish. I do not even know the word for “lawn” in Spanish for sure. Infierno, I think it is.

4 Responses to “Santos, Save Us From This!”

  1. michelpellerin

    Your writing deserves more emotions like those who fulfilled you when you saw that «pasto». Maybe you did not expected it but I laughed…

    • StephenBrassawe

      Of course there are the wealthy of Mexico City, Michel, who surreptitiously maintain lawns concealed behind the walls of their compounds, paying some other poor bastards to tend them. I had occasion to see this once. Inside, sure enough, there was a lawn with a dog gamboling upon it. But such a thing is to be expected. As I often say, to paraphrase our Savior, the rich will always be with us.


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