Can't believe all the chips the mullethead still has on 'its' shoulder. Though 'it' is the most impractical choice to do the task, 'it' insists on still mowin' the lawn. Bein' the slightest of us, it has to work twice as hard as me to do it, and three times as hard as my mentor, but oh well.
No, not oh well. With what little to do there is around here with the ponies and the horse gone, I'd like to have a chance at the lawn once in a while. On the other hand, I never have to fuel the car up, which is OK by me.
What blows me away, is the mullethead finds your standard 'sausage casin'' rather annoyin', yet it acts more like one than the two it lives with, not that me and my mentor are standard 'sausage casin's' (I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M CALLIN' MYSELF THAT!!!!!!) or typical in any way.
What can we do but humour it, for if not; Hiroshima ain't seen nuthin'. Nor did Fukushima. Not even Sodom and Gomorrah, or Joplin, Mo after dem dar tornaders.
Hell hath no fury like a militant feminist under the delusion that its bein' emasculated.
On the other hand, startin' this last week, we're goin' to town twice a week to party and scarf. Once on Thursday after house cleanin', and once on Sunday after the mullethead finishes the lawn. Or whatever other day if the mullethead gets rained out on Sunday.
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