Larry Of The Great Power Washer Responds To A Complaint From The HOA

Behold, I wield my flaming sword like the archangel Uriel, defending the heavenly gates of our neighborhood from grime.

Though I hold great power, do not fear me. I know of the oil marks on the Bagosians’ driveway, of the grass smudges on the Stanhopes’ walkway, and of the dried blueberry pie incident on the hood of Mrs. Montgomery’s Ford EcoSport. I have seen these things, and I have made them clean, for I am benevolent.

There is no filth I will not recommit to the ground, no wrong I will not make right, and no foe I will not cut down. My spray is multitudinous, and thanks to the purchase of a 300-foot expansion hose, my influence is vast.

To any who would blight our sidewalks, I am come to destroy you. You will know my fury as you see it pour forth in a configuration of pressurized water fired at a velocity of 1900 PSI. You cannot hide, for my spray is omni-directional thanks to the 5-in-1 change-over nozzle I recently acquired for more versatile cleaning.

Do you ask the artist why he paints, a maestro why he composes, or a duck why she quacks? No, you allow these things to be, content simply because they are. Yet, you question why I must “power wash at all hours of the day.”

At a time when the lines of good and evil are blurred, the power washer is clearly a force for good. When the days run together and time itself feels as though it is no longer meted out in a linear way, my power washing sessions bring with them an alpha and an omega.

At a time of great hopelessness, the power washer is of clear use. In a world filled with uncertainty, the power washer is logic. It is you who needs the glowing LEDs on my digitized instrument panel to light a path, because it is you who have lost your way.

Remaining the vigilant sentinel of the neighborhood safeguarding the very purity of our lands is a 24-hour job. So, no, I will not bound myself to the “very reasonable request to operate only between the hours of 7 a.m. and 7 p.m.” Nor shall I take you up on the offer to buy me “a newer, quieter more powerful electric power washer.” The mighty roar of my mechanical beast’s 0.9 horsepower two-stroke motor will be heard.

Who put you up to this, Homeowner’s Association? Who has dripped poison in your ear? I have no doubt it was Doug the Elder. I beseech you, do not trust the one that is Doug. Know that his intentions are fraught with wickedness. Homeowner’s Association, he is a serpent, slithering amidst our Eden.

Thrice wicked Doug came to me, asking to borrow my power washer. Thrice I did deny him. Because a horsemen would never loan out his horse before the apocalypse. But also, because, lo, he still has my cordless drill he borrowed to make a birdhouse for a family of cardinals.

I have trained many years in the arts of trajectorial water compulsion. With such a mighty power, only a mighty few can be trusted. Doug’s feebleness is not merely of mind but also body. In his withered hands, the power washer would become a scythe, indiscriminate in its reckoning. A bystander, or Doug himself — God willing — could be maimed or easily killed.

I spurned his request for the use of my power washer and in retaliation, he has turned you against me, Homeowner’s Association. But know this, though you may scheme in the recesses of darkened chambers, plotting to quell my efforts, I remain righteous. For many a morning, I have received a Ring doorbell notification with footage of Doug allowing his Newfoundland to relieve himself on my begonias. The ancient one knows nothing of the new magic. And though I am righteous, I will upload the footage to Nextdoor.

But, what is this? Doug has left something in my mailbox. Oh, for shame. It is an image of me defecating in Doug’s flower bed this now seven winters past. Oh, but then I was young and hot-blooded and lacked the adequate bowel control required to make it back to my house after a five-mile run.

Well played, Elder Doug, well played. You may borrow my power washer. May the fiery rod burn your hands and the wild spray take your sight. But you may borrow it.

And, Homeowner’s Association, if it’s not too late, we can talk about that new electric model — anything to help reduce my carbon footprint.