I'm a Hard-Working, Yard-Working Man

So, one thing that I don't like about living in the South is that you have to mow in November. I know this because I've done it for the past six years. One year, when I had a particularly aggressive patch of thistles (ironic) and crab grass, I mowed on the first week of December.

Now, I understand that this is not Florida or Southern Texas or Southern California where you have to mow pretty much year-round (I imagine). This is North By God Carolina, but I'm still not used to it. In northeastern Indiana, it was time to put the mowers away in the middle of September. Sometimes, if Indian Summer falls just right, you might have to mow in October, but after that, you're sitting pretty until April.

Not so here. And while I don't mind mowing--especially if my wife is home to make sure the agents of entropy children don't kill each other--there's just something unright about mowing in November, at least in my mind. Shouldn't there be a law forbidding you from sweating and being cold at the same time? Usually, I come in from mowing and take a shower to feel cool and refreshed, not to warm up and refresh.

And that's the other thing I don't understand: it was a perfectly lovely day yesterday, warm and sunny with nary a cloud mottling the perfect blue dome of the heavens above. Yet, whenever I was in the shade and shadows of the many trees lining my yard, I felt cold. Not shivering cold, but cool nonetheless. And, I was sweating like the proverbial pig, or whore in church, whichever way you want to go with that. When I came in and shucked my pants and boxers, my ass cheeks were ice cold. They were more like ice cheeks. More ice, less ass. We won't even talk about how badly I was turtled.

My only beef with mowing--aside from the fact that it is suspiciously like real work--is that this is a time when I should be communing with my yard and the vast world around me. While I'm locked in the silence within my head, I should be able to ponder the world at large, or--better yet--do a little soul searching. However, this is not the case. Instead of some life-altering and self-improving ompahloskepsis, I think about work. Like, my job work. Like, the job that I'm trying to escape by being home and relaxing on the weekends work.

For instance, yesterday I thought about how I need to register and submit compounds 007 and 009 (yes, the former does have a license to kill...Trypanosomes!). I also thought about how I need to spot the 150 tubes in my hood and then take the cleaned-up compound on to the ring-closure this afternoon, if possible. And from there, I planned out the rest of the week depending on how much material I get out of the ring closure.

Argh! This is not something one should be thinking about for two hours on a Sunday afternoon in early November! Fortunately, while doing the yard on the western side of the house, I was able to put together the scene I'm envisioning for the next chapter in the book I'm currently working on, so when I finally finish up the second chapter tonight, I can get to working on this next one and fill out this scene that I've imagined.

In case you couldn't tell, I didn't really write much last night. Instead, I bitched about the Packers losing on the heels of Notre Dame being whupped on by Navy and how that tore at my poor, despondent heart. And then I put some new things up on the sidebars of the blog! Hooray!

It occurred to me that someone might want to go back and look at all of the Friday Morning Latin lessons. That someone might be me when I'm trying to reference an older lesson, for instance Aut futue, aut pugnemus!, so I thought I'd make it easier on myself and anyone else by just making a link that you can click on and access them at your leisure. Then, I thought the same about Totally Blowing Shit Up Tuesdays. And finally, I thought the same thing about all my TMI stories, so I collected those, put them together, and then added in the five-part story about my stay in the hospital when I got my gall bladder removed back in 2006. For, you know, posterity's sake. And while I probably should have used Lilu's button for the picture linking to all my TMI goodliness, I opted for the Hobbes picture, you know, the class the joint up some. Plus, mooooog used it last week, and I thought it was pretty fucking awesome.

Those are all located over on the far right, beneath the Followers button, because, really, if it wasn't for the 140-plus friends I've accrued over the past couple of years, none of these stories would have made it to electronic print. Think of it was a way of giving back to you.

Now, get off my lawn. I just mowed it and I need to look nice until the end of March.

More Indiana Fun

I. Am. Speechless. Speechless because I'm laughing so hard at this guy caught masturbating by his mailbox.

Yorktown, IN dude arrested for public spanking.

Can anyone else think of a better excuse to tell police? Neither can I.

Wow.

We all have that person in our office who sends around funny emails to everyone. Sometimes it's a picture, sometimes it's a little movie, sometimes it's a joke. Fortunately for me, the guy in my office who does that has some good taste and so he only sends around the actual funny stuff. Such as today's picture:

Apparently, mommy works at Home Depot, and she's supposedly selling a shovel in this picture. By the looks on everyone's faces, either it's snowed a shit-ton in the past thirty minutes, or mommy sells shovels with her tits hanging out.

Here's a lesson for all the mothers out there: check your child's homework before they trot off to school. Or don't, and be the brunt of internet jokes the world around.

Packing it In

Well, I was all set to do a whole bunch of stuff on this here slice of the ebays, but it turns out, I'm unwanted. My once and future friend, the Good Doctor Zibbs, owner, operator, and CEO of That Blue Yak Enterprises, LLC, has told me that he doesn't like my type. I've been devastated ever since. Well, that is, until I read the comments on the post where he called me out. Since then, I've been balled up on the floor, wondering how I can go on.

Frankly, I've realized, I can't.

So, thus is born the final chapter of A Crown of Thistles. Oh sure, you're saying, like he's going to do it. He should be more resilient than that. He should be an adult, hold a stiff upper lip, and travel on. Fuck the rest of the commenters on his Internet Sensation. Fuck them all gently with a chainsaw.

However, I realized that with Dr. Zibbs looking at me with scorn and disdain and Rider no longer keeping the Block...well...this is not an internet I wish to download fringe celebrity upskirt photos cruise around on. The Crown, if you will, has been tarnished.

So...at the end of the month, I'll be locking the door and tossing away the key. Or perhaps I'll have Wizard Cat transmogrify it into jelly beans. Mmmmm...I like jelly beans.

I regret nothing...save for the fact that I couldn't upload and install a copy of "The End" by the Doors for you all to enjoy as I sulk into the sunset. Or perhaps just stand there, naked, facing the setting sun, and singing Sinatra's "Summer Wind."