On Saturday, I mowed for the first time this year.
Oh, I didn't really have to, but the yard was starting to look shaggy, and a couple of the neighbors had already mowed, ending the annual neighborhood Mexican standoff over who's going to mow first, thus kicking off the official mowing season, so ... I mowed. As some of you may recall, mowing is my least-favorite part of home ownership, mainly because of my inability to find a mower that will actually start on a reliable basis. But on Saturday, it was time to mow, so I mowed.
I almost didn't.
A couple of days before, I charged the mower's electric start battery. On Saturday, I checked the oil and the gas and rolled it out of the garage and went to start it up. It turned over, coughed, spat out a cloud of smoke, and died.
"SON OF A BITCH!"
I stood there, looking at the mower in disbelief. "You no-good, c*ck s*cking, m*therf*cking, son of a BITCH! I JUST BOUGHT YOU, less than a year ago! I spent over three hundred bucks on you, you piece of f*cking sh*t! I even sprang for an electric start! Last fall I put Sta-Bil in your tank and filled up the oil and I EVEN STORED YOU IN THE HEATED GARAGE SO YOU WOULDN'T GET COLD, you miserable f*cktard! And now, NOW, you're not going to START?! Oh, f*ck you, motherf*cker. GAME ON."
I gritted my teeth. I turned the key again. The mower turned over, coughed, and then, before it could die again, I juiced it. I hit the damn gas and cranked it until that son of a b*tch was running like a jet engine. I let fly a few more choice words.
And then I mowed the goddam lawn. Son of a b*tch. Welcome to lawn-mowing season.