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Sunday, February 3, 2013

Hemingway's Weed Eater

This is an updated Buzz classic from a retired blog, as per fan request (hi mom!)...
"Well, at least I don't have to weed eat the damned yard."
It donned upon me this evening, as I was weed eating the yard, drenched in sweat under the watchful eye of the beautiful girl on a riding mower, to wonder if Hemingway ever had to weed eat.
"I think a man feels more like a man when he doesn't have to run a weed eater all the time."
She was watching me very closely too, like a guard at a prison camp might suspiciously eye an inmate who is a little too close to the fence. She knows I hate weed eating. I protest every time I have to get the thing out. It is beyond my realm of comprehension why such a thing was ever invented. 
"I'm sorry. Inventing the weed eater seemed like a really good idea at the time!"
I wish I could find that guy, the inventor, and beat him senseless with the damned thing. First, I'd knock him to the ground with it. Then I'd run it right beside his face so he gets covered by all the dirt and crud that it kicks up out of the yard. And then, just for good measure, so he really understood how I felt about him, I'd make him go to weed eater Hell where no matter how you do it, no matter which way you spool it, the minute the thing fires up, all of your string shoots out both sides into the yard! 
"Loading this string is so easy. I am going to be rich for having invented this thing!"
I did that once for an entire day with a brand new weed eater. It was one of them real fancy expensive ones. By the end of the day, I threw the spooling mechanism and then jumped up and down on it until I was 100% certain that it was dead. Then I went to town and bought one of those attachments with the plastic blades on it. 
The only real difference is that the latter hurts a lot more when the plastic blades bust, fly off, and take off a chunk of your scalp. But either way, I still hate weed eaters and weed eating. It just seems so wrong. I figure if Mother Nature wanted me to weed eat, she wouldn't have bothered planting all those little weeds around everything in my yard. 
The perfect lawn?

And IF (and that is a HUGE IF), if weeds and tall grasses are sooooo offensive to the senses of others, then I say round up the little boogers and be done with it! Kill it all! Every tree, shrub and blade of grass, and cover the whole lawn in rocks if you like and paint em' green. But for the love of everything holy in this world, do not weed eat!
Anyhow...I was thinking to myself about all of those things, and about how calling yourself a writer lends itself to others saying things like, "you haven't done anything today but write, so why can't you weed eat?" I wanted to say how writing is so draining, how my body aches after a four hour stretch at the computer, and how my fingers are almost seized up from hacking on the keys. Instead, I fired up the confounded contraption and weed-eated. Quietly, like a damned martyr, I suffered the indignity of it all until it struck me...
Hemingway, not weed eating
...I bet that Earnest Hemingway never had to run a damned weed eater. Yes! Brilliant! The perfect argument. It is undeniable really. Who could even try to argue that he had. And as she approached on another turn and came back across the yard toward me, I hit her with it.

"I bet Hemingway never had to weed eat!" I yelled over the roar of the riding mower.

She looked at me perplexed. I knew that I had beaten her with the argument. In her confused look as she passed, I saw my own victory. I saw a future free of weed eating. I envisioned that she had, in that second, come to recognize that as a writer, my plate is full, and that such menial tasks are beneath me. Looking in her eyes I saw defeat. The broken shell of the woman that she once was. She slowed and idled down the mower. Our eyes locked. Any second, she was going to tell me that I was right and that it was wrong of her to ever have asked an artist to weed eat when he could be writing the next Walden Pond, the next Iliad. She removed her ear buds.

"What?" she asked. "I couldn't hear you over the mower."

I felt cornered. I panicked. She had taken my every assumption and laid them low. "Nothing honey," I replied hastily and turned my back to her before she could see through my charade."Damn it," I whispered to myself as the mower fired back up and I rounded tree number twenty-four out of a hundred. "Stupid Hemingway."
The moral of this veeeeeery true story is, of course, that calling yourself a writer does not make you Earnest Hemingway. Beyond even that, Hemingway was a notorious heterosexual male. As such, you may rest assured that at some point in his life, some beautiful woman saw to it that, he too, had weeded the yard. Only, back then, he was probably mumbling something under his breath about wishing to hell someone would invent some contraption to make his job just a little bit easier.

Thanks for Reading!

Buzz Malone

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