Sorry, this is sort of sort of long.
So I have a yard again, which means that I have to mow again. After a couple of weeks of destroying my body and soul with a push mower, my father-in-law mercifully gave me his recently resurrected Craftsman riding mower. Alas, due to the inexplicably long grass chute on the right side of the mower (it protrudes maybe six inches past the tires), it’s difficult to get close enough to some obstacles without turning it completely around and approaching on the left side, which gets ridiculous and makes me look and feel like an idiot, wheeling round and round in my yard at 35 mph because it only has two forward speeds: Rip Your Face Off and Not Quite Idle. Also I hate to weed-eat, so getting powerful close to the side of the flower beds and whatnot is important. Yesterday I finally decided to remedy the chute problem, unknowingly setting into motion a demonic initiative to make me defecate in my underthings and turn my hair all white and puffy instantaneously.
Being a fairly typical southern male, I reasoned that it would be much too difficult to remove the two screws that held the chute in place and detach it; therefore, all that was left was to devise a mechanism to hold the chute up at an angle as I mowed. And by “devise a mechanism” I mean “use some sort of rope or string.” After searching for countless seconds for a rope in my decrepit shed, I spied a bungee in the corner. “Eureka,” said I, “this will work perfectly!”
I attached the bungee to the mower in an ingenious fashion that any engineer would envy. Both ends were equipped with useless fragile hooks, as is often the case with cheap bungees. I hooked one of these to a hole at the top of the console area and the other to the end of the grass chute. I gave it a couple of light tugs to confirm it was secure and determined that it probably wouldn’t hold forever, but it would finish the job at hand.
My handiwork complete, I began mowing forthwith. After a couple of rounds of getting within a razor’s width of my obstacles–and feeling quite pleased with myself, I might add–I reached the shady flower bed at the edge of the yard. As I expertly guided the ancient blue mower underneath the old box elder tree, my head was cruelly pounced upon by what else but a rabid ninja snake with an unquenchable thirst for human blood.
I’m not that easily perturbed. It usually takes quite a bit to freak me out, and even if I am freaked out I do my best not to show it, even if nobody is around. Again, fairly typical southern male. But my reaction to this unexpected and bold attack could only be described as pure, uninhibited panic.
Amazingly–and fortunately, since all safety cutoffs have long since been removed from the mower, if there ever were any to start with–I never actually left the machine. Once the snake wrapped the entire length of its body around my head and blinded me, my first instinct was to get my sight back in order to identify the fiend’s species and, I suppose, to continue safe operation of the giant, wheeled spinning blade machine I was straddling. I began desperately smacking and flicking at the snake (trying not going to grab it for fear it may bite) in the hopes that it would retreat and give me sight. Presently the beast moved enough that I could see its devilish form: a yellow/bronze snake with black markings. Non-poisonous, maybe a corn snake? Copperhead? In a tree? What sort of freak snake is this? As my mind raced and my hands flailed, the mower climbed into and across the flower bed, the front tire ultimately bouncing against the fence on the other side.
Realizing the situation was getting critical, I mustered my courage and girded my loins, then quickly reached up and grabbed the snake. With a flourish of deadly grace I slung the reptile as far as I could, into the gravel driveway. It hit the ground and remained motionless in a lump, no doubt shocked at my manly bravery in resisting its attack. I dismounted the mower and ran over to identify the species like that nerd in school that always did that kind of thing when you took field trips to the zoo or whatever.
As I approached the snake cautiously and my nerves calmed, understanding crashed upon my addled brain like a load of manure on Biff Tannen. I turned to look back at the mower and saw that the grass chute was no longer being held up by my pitiful, cheap bungee. The hook on my bungee had taken too much and, instead of falling to the ground like Zeus intended, it was flung into my face just as I went underneath the tree and was leaning out to avoid a low-hanging limb.
This is where I would put a witty summary or conclusion if I could think of one, but I can’t.