Get Off My Lawn, Squatter
It seems like every time I go outside to yell at the paperboy for not bringing me better news, there’s another goddamn mooch using up my lawn.
I pay good money to keep my lawn looking fresh and pleasing to the eye. Not “white gardener” good money, but good enough money for a Mexican. As usual, however, the Millenials have no respect for the hard work paid for by their elders. You ingrates think you were born with all the answers. Well, answer this, smart guy: Why don’t my children ever visit me? Is it because they’re creeps?
Getting back to the heart of the matter, I’ve yelled numerous appeals and no one cares, so here are some “trendy” reasons to stay the hell off my lawn. Maybe if you realize it’s “cool” to go somewhere else, you won’t come back — just like my terrible wife.
1.) It’s My Lawn, Not Yours — Yours Is Somewhere Else
If you’re half as stupid as you look, you may not have realized this simple fact: it’s not your lawn, but mine. Your lawn is somewhere else for all I know. I don’t care where it is. Maybe you’re a beggar — like your clothes would suggest — and don’t have a lawn of your own. In that case, the sidewalk is your lawn. I’m calling the police.
2.) Your Causes Sicken Me
You may not know it because I won’t go out if there’s a chill or I’m watching my programs, but I see you on my lawn, hammering signs into my supple Kochia grass, imploring people to vote “yes” on this and “no” on that. I make it my business to vote against whatever position your signs espouse, even if doing so is against my own interest. Curious where your signs disappear to? I keep them all in a pile in my garage that’s one gust of wind away from becoming my cardboard tomb.
3.) I Pay Good Money for That Lawn
This may be lost on the average Johnny Studentloan, but money doesn’t just appear thanks to the magic of socialism. You have to earn it or collect it from Social Security. Having done all the work I plan to, I rely on the latter. As a result, I have to make wise decisions about how my money is spent. Every dollar invested in my lawn is a dollar that didn’t go to charity. That means your striding around on my fine Kochia grass is the equivalent of eating an Ethiopian.
4.) I Don’t Hang Around Your Lawn for All You Know
One thing’s for sure: You never see me just hanging around your lawn. Maybe I do it at night. Maybe I follow you home when you’ve finally had your fill of my imported Kochia grass and make a note of where you live so I can come back later and just stamp around on your cut-rate Saint Augustine. Maybe I poke around in the bushes to see what I can find and peep through your window blinds to find out what you’re watching on TV or how big your penis is compared to mine. You’ll never know because I have the good taste not to haunt your lawn so far as you’re aware.
5.) My Lawn Is Not a Shortcut to More Cake, Fattie
Nearly every day, like clockwork, a parade of chunky and unattractive children stampede across my lawn like Howdy-Doody just cried “suey.” These children do not need to take shortcuts in school, across my lawn, or anywhere else. America will collapse under the weight of them if they’re not forced to do things the hardest, sweatiest way possible. Not one of them could have survived the hell I went through listening to my father’s stories about World War Two.
6.) I Pay Good Money for That Lawn
I’m sure you’re familiar with living paycheck to paycheck selling cheap hamburgers wrapped in plastic, but I don’t think you truly understand what it means to live on a fixed income. Every time you leave a hoof print, I have to pay Manuel extra to get rid of any trace of you. I can only afford so many sod palettes, parasite. In theory, I could make up the difference working a few hours a week as a Walmart greeter, but I can’t convince anyone I’m glad to see them.
7.) There’s a Park Two Blocks from My Lawn — Stay Away from My Park
This may be news to you, given how much time you spend on my lawn, but there’s a park two blocks down Minnow Avenue. You stay away from that park. I go to that park every Thursday to feed the ducks and think about all the pornographic movies I could have starred in if someone had believed in me as a young buck. I don’t want you anywhere near there. If I see you, I will leave and never go back. Then what will you do? Probably follow me back to my lawn.
I realize my appeal to logic and decency is likely to be met with pudding-brained responses like “Whut?” and “Dude?” To those of you too strung out on the weed, crank, smack, whack, jack, tack or Tide pods, I would just like to say: I am a peaceful and patient man. I believe the children are the future. However, I also know I won’t be around for much of that future, so fuck around and find out.
That’s it. Go away.