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Goodbye, little buddy


Feh. I shipped my lawnmower 3,500 miles, got two mows out of it, and — BANG! — hit a metal post sunk in the ground and totalled it. Bent the driveshaft. Complete goner.

It was old and nothing special, but it was one of those happy few, once-in-a-lifetime mowers that started on the first pull. Every time. Two months on a container ship across the frozen Atlantic in Winter, came out the box and started on the first pull.

It was mine and I liked it.

So I’ve spent a week disconsolately lookin’ at mowers. Everything we saw was very fancy and glossy and a minimum of £200 for an underpowered, no-big-deal, weasel-driven push mower.

I’ve taken the mowing on myself — it’s the one way I can harness my plant-murdering powers for good. I looked at those fancy sports-car-looking machines with all the complicated shit hanging off them and thought to myself miserably, “oh, how a weasel is going to fuck up that shiny yard candy.”

We hit one last place today — a man who repairs and sells mowers out of his home — and I spotted a rusty old job in the corner and fell in love. “Make me an offer,” he shrugged. Heh. Weasel’s got a new funky old mower.

Hey, dude had six cats. I know I can trust him.

Anyhow, I have to mark where that post is so I don’t hit it ruin another mower. So I came up with this thing. Uncle B says I’ll go to hell for this picture, so…ummm…I hope nobody’s had a recent bereavement or anything.

June 5, 2009 — 7:52 pm
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