Hello again, alleged readers! And for those of you reading this week’s letter from most places in Canada: Hello again, alleged readers! No offence to the fine folks over in Quebec, it’s just that I don’t speak French. I’d love to be able to also greet Quebecois readers in their native tongue, however no matter how hard I try, I cannot get my Muzzy® Tapes to fit into my CD player, let alone actually play them. Alas, Francophones, please know that despite our linguistic contrasts, firstly, I mean you no harm, and secondly, I am smiling at you from behind my keyboard here to indicate friendliness across our language barrier. I suppose if you only speak French, this is doing no good, so I would advise you to hand this to a bilingual person, ideally one that speaks English and French, and have them translate this all for you.
I’d draw an instructional picture for the French; yet I can’t draw in English, let alone French.
I was mowing my lawn this last Saturday morning, trying ever so hard to get done in time for the 3am start of my favorite television program. You all know the one, I assume; but you know what happens when you assume: you will have made an assumption, and often these should not be considered fact. If you don’t know the TV show I’m talking about, it’s the one where every week Rick Tomaska has a different set of coins and every week people call in and try to negotiate with Rick to give them his coins. Often times they try to bribe Rick with money. Sometimes Rick accepts the bribe, but then, plot twist, Rick always has more coins! And this goes on for hours and hours. Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s a game show or a soap opera, but by the time the sun comes up, I am absolutely wiped out from the drama of it all.
Just about halfway through the lawn, I was forced to stop dead in my tracks, and dismount the mower. I have a self-propelled walk-behind mower, but I prefer to squat on top of it and just sort of let it take me for a ride every week. Sometimes the mower and I almost mow the whole lawn before the mower stops running, and I have to hitch it to my knockoff Razor scooter and tow it to the gas station. But last Saturday morning, the mower was not yet out of gas. The reason for this unexpected interruption was a golf ball. A solitary, unattended golf ball just lying about in my yard. I don’t even think I live near a golf course! But there it was, glistening in the moonlight, the dew beginning to form on the dimples, coalescing into miniscule ethereal pools of prismatic glimmer. I obviously couldn’t mow it. The mower is only working with half a blade right now, and an altercation with a golf ball might just finally take the other half. So now, there’s a lightly used Utah Jazz branded Titleist Pro V1 sitting out there in my yard. Despite what I said earlier, I am going to assume that I sure as heck don’t live near the Utah Jazz; and I can’t mow until it’s gone. As such, if any of you are missing a Utah Jazz Titleist Pro V1 with an ID # 4, please come get it. Otherwise, it’s going to throw off my whole upcoming weekend.
Pensez-vous que l’hiver sera rude?