John Deere, Destroyer Of Worlds.

"The moment one gives close attention to any thing, even a blade of grass - it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself." - Henry Miller

Being a blade of grass must be a bitch.

Out in the sun, frying to a crisp, watered until you are sopping wet, sprayed with chemicals and pesticides, walked on, shit on, and just when you are feeling tall and proud - someone cuts your head off.

What did you do to deserve such treatment? Nothing. All you've been doing is standing in the same spot, putting down roots, chatting with your buddies. Hell I've seen groups of teenagers do the same thing in the lobby of the local McDonald's. ( Oh how I wished I could have whipped out the weed-eater and gone to town.)

Does grass feel pain?

I hope not, because even I would feel a little bit of guilt if I knew that each blade was screaming in agony just so my lawn could look neat and tidy. (Who am I kidding? I would just turn up the iPod and keep on mowing.) The sound must be out of range of the human ear.

What if the revolution comes?

When it does, I'll turn on every one of you. I'll convince our new green overlords that the ones responsible are those bastards at Home & Garden Television, broadcasting their message of hate across the airwaves, sullying the image of a wild and free lawn. I'll even help set the Home Depots on fire, just to prove my loyalty. I'll turn so fast, I'll start producing oxygen.

No one will be safe.

Until then I'll bide my time, and keep mowing.
Has anybody seen my sprayer of Killex?

Later.