Sunday, June 28, 2009
See those lovely brown spots? They are not some ancient symbol of infertility, or some crop circle some slack jawed farmer in Iowa found one day while out milking the cows. No, those sweet, sweet brown spots are what happens to my lawn after about ten days of 101 degree heat with no rain. Not even a mist or some dew to slacken the raging thirst of my grudge against the world grass. After Mother Nature's attempt to assassinate me, war was declared, and has been progressing quite well for my troops. You see without rain, i.e. water green shit dies. It dies a slow, painful, horrible death. Slowly withering away to a brown husk of its former self. Tough, and I am sure that if grass could feel pain (here's hoping) it sounds like a painfully shitty way to die. As I previously posted nothing green can stay, and Mother Nature's head on a silver plate would be a lovely way for this war to end. Once the rains of May give way to the sizzling heat of June, and the mind numbing heat of July my forces(meaning myself and various tools of minor destruction) will be triumphant. Until Mother Nature decides she has had enough, or brings the rain, I control the water supply that my lawn, and it various minions of Mother Nature receive. Would you care to guess how much water that is going to be? Let's go with none, nada, rein, zilch, the big ZERO. I am not a cruel man. The thought of perhaps giving the lawn a snippet of water once a week has crossed my mind. Sort of a new, improved water torture. Give it just enough water to not die, but not enough to keep it alive. Fairly wicked of me it is not? However, mercy is a sign of a civilized man, and I am the model of civility (ask anyone they will tell you). I do not wish to prolong the death throes of Mother Nature's denizens on my property, in fact the quicker they wither and die the better for everyone involved. This was never meant to be fun for anyone. It simply became a test of wills, and a matter of principle, and while the civility comment above might be horseshit, ask those same people if I have principles shot through with an iron will to achieve what I set out to do. I will leave Mother Nature high, and will leave Mother Nature dry on the property that I own. I repeat for her benefit nothing green can stay.
Nearly men, the ones that ALMOST made it big, the ones that ALMOST got carried around the village square on the shoulders of their fans, the ones that ALMOST got that ticker tape parade in New York City. It seems I am a fan of nearly men, possessing a unerring ability to pick them out, and hitch my wagon to their almost star. The nearly men I speak of are, of course, sports teams. Hope you did not think this post was going to be some deep political, or philosophical discourse on the nature of ubermen. I have already chronicled my sad love affair with the Minnesota Vikings, and the four super bowls they have lost in my life time. This does not include their other near-misses going to two NFC championship games in the last decade or so, and losing. Once again nearly men. Then there are my soccer clubs. The picture on this post is of my latest "nearly men" the Swedish Under 21 team that just lost the semi-finals of the European Championship to perfidious Albion on penalty kicks. The fellow with his head in his hands is Guillmero Molins, and the reason he is on his knees in despair is because he just clanged his penalty shot off the post, thus ensuring that the douche bag keeper's team, i.e. England, get to play in the final. I know it is odd for a full blooded American to be a fan of the Swedish football (soccer) team, but I never claimed to be normal. I have been a of Swedish soccer since their senior side were nearly men in the 1994 World Cup. Finishing third after losing to those samba bastards Brazil. Beginning my love affair with Swedish soccer in general, and Henrik Larsson in particular. Even before I was born (many, many moons ago) they were nearly men in 1958, losing in the final to those bastards Brazil and Pele 5-2. Seems Brazil just has my number. Even the women's soccer team managed somehow to lost the World Cup final to the stinking Germans in 2003 2-1, after leading 1-0. Then there is my EPL team, Arsenal. The team that has the most 2nd place finishes in the Premier league since its inception in 1992 (5). Granted I have not been a fan of Arsenal all my life but they have one exactly one thing in the years I have. Even managing to lose in the Champion League final in 2006 to Barcelona and my favourite player Larsson. Nothing like watching your favourite player rip the heart out of your favourite team on a big screen TV. Of course the Swedish hockey team has been nearly men a few times as well losing in the Under 21 finals to Canada in 2008. Though they did to be fair win the gold medal and the European Championship in 2006. The only team that I support that has climbed to the top of the mountain is the North Carolina men's basketball team. Winning the title 4 times in my lifetime (1982, 1993, 2005, and 2009). Of course they have made the Final Four 13 times in that time. So four out of thirteen not the best odds in the world, but at least they won something. Maybe this is some sort of character flaw of mine, or maybe I just like a bunch of fucking losers. All these nearly men moments leave me a bit like M. Molins up there, head in hands despair coursing through my soul, and the realization that we were THAT close. I guess at I should be encouraged that at least my teams are there at the end. I mean losing the FINAL, while gutting, does mean that you were in the final to begin with. It could be much worse I could be a Cubs fan or a Tottenham fan (shiver).
Sunday, June 14, 2009
"I would like to report a crime please." The desk Sargent looks up from his paper with a bored expression on his face, slaps down three pieces of paper on the desk in front of him, and asks "your name?" "My name is GI," I reply a bit shakily since the crime in question had happened a mere few minuets ago. "Name of the person you are complaining against, and the nature of the crime." "Simple," I say "Her name is Mother Nature, and she just attempted to murder/assassinate me." That gets his attention he looks at me through narrowed eyes, and says "look buddy, I do not know, nor do I care, what fucking drugs you have to take in order to make yourself believe that Mother Nature tried to murder you, but this is a police station, not a lunatic asylum." "Filing a false offense report is a felony, so why don't you just get up, and leave, and I will pretend this did not happen." "Sir, I am serious." "Not more than 48 hours ago that bitch Mother Nature tried to kill me." Now if I were a better writer of dialog, I would continue to tell the tale of my attempted murder along this story arc, but since I suck at it, allow me to explain why this post is being written. I have a small yard at my house, and it is a constant source of angst for me. It seems I have grass that grows like it has a grudge against the world, and therefore, requires mowing at least twice a week. It is amazing. I LOATHE yard work. I went to nearly a decade of school(s) so that would no longer be forced to do yard work. In my opinion the day I was handed a diploma I said goodbye to yard work. Being fantastically wealthy I do not feel the need to nurture the world by making shit grow. In fact, I get a certain sense of sadistic pride in cutting shit DOWN. Trees in my yard are not safe. I purchased a handy dandy tree lopper just so I can lop off trees heads like Robespierre during the Reign of Terror. I lop them with undisguised glee. However, of course the bastards just grow back again. Thus, my unending war against all things green. I have big plans for this war. Large swathes of my fee simple are going to be laid to waste, and sown with salt to ensure that I win this war. Well, on Friday Mother Nature decided to fight back. The photos above are of my house and the huge fucking tree that the bitch lobbed with evil intent onto my house. As you can tell, it was not a small tree, and as of this writing is still on my house awaiting some lunatic with a crane, a chain saw, and a death wish to come remove it. All for the low, low price of around $1800 American dollars. Good times. A hole in the roof, and a rainstorm or two has added to Mother Nature's crimes. I need roof repair, gutter repair, and a stiff drink. The drink was necessary because the kicker of the tree attacks house story is that not thirty seconds before the tree "fell" (or was pushed) I was standing in its landing zone. Good thing I did not drop any of the items I was carrying into the house, or this post might be written as an obituary. It might not have killed me, but it certainly would have given me a peek at the other side. Thus, my complaint that Mother Nature, that dangerously insane cunt, is trying to kill me. So war it is, and it is going to be a long one. I understand that she has forces at her control that can pick me up like a rag doll, and toss me miles away, or forces that can crush me like a bug. Legions of animals at her beck and call, can devour me whole as a snack (and I am not a small man). Whole acres of ground can open up and, swallow me at the wave of her outstretched hand. Plagues, diseases, fires, pestilences, and all sort of nasty things are at her disposal if she wants to rid the world of my stain. My power pales somewhat in comparison. However, I am stubborn as an Army mule, and I hold a grudge. I have reestablished plans to build a particle accelerator in my bathtub in order to arm myself with nuclear weapons. All I need is a little plutonium, and I am set. Until then, I will have to do with my tree lopper, weed whacker, lawn mower, and an indomitable will to win this war. Consider this post to be my declaration of war on good old Mother Nature. I plan on turning my freehold into Hell's Half Acre for Mother Nature. Until one of us quits, or is crushed like a bug (or by a bug), within my dominions (i.e. my house and small yard), Nothing Green Can Stay.