Part 1 is here.
There’s no joy like the sense of freedom that comes from
taking a leak on my lawn. People are fighting and dying in foreign countries to
defend my right to a lawn I can piss on and they have my utmost gratitude.
Aside from my rights to own as many guns as I want or shoot my mouth off about
pretty much anything other than threatening to kill someone, having grass where
I can whip out my dick and flood out a sizable spot is pretty much about what
makes this country great.
My wife objects to my pissing in our backyard but I suspect
it’s sheer jealousy on her part, that she’s too afraid to just hang it out and
let it go, anywhere she felt like it. I mean, she goes mental if I piss on the
neighbor’s lawn or behind the bushes along the side of her best friend’s house
but who really cares about their grass? (They sure don’t). And it’s not like
I’m the type to piss in a camp fire or on the leg of some stranger while
waiting in line at the bank, I can usually resist the urge to make my toilet
where there’s witnesses.
On long car trips, she and her bb-sized bladder are
unbearable, our travel time doubled because she has to make her acquaintance
with every public restroom along the way. It’s the code of marriage, which includes
the demand that we repeat things to the point where our partners are insane
enough to stay with us. Thus, I never fail to offer to simply pull over so she
can squat by the side of the road and every time she looks at me as if an alien
has just popped out of my skull, one with a mouth that could suggest such a
thing. After pointing out that I do it all the time and there’s never been an
incident of anything other than bladder relief, she’s chewing through the seat
belt with rage at my familiarity of I.P. Freely’s works.
I was about five beers into the day when the baby started screeching,
a sound I can only compare to a mixture of metal on metal and a Korngold aria.
Of course my wife responded as though her niece had just burst into a ball of
little pink flames. She snatched the tot up from the lawn and into her arms,
brushing ants off the prat’s s milky skin as she danced around like a shaman. I
took a sip of beer as I watched the show, thinking that she should have dealt
with the fireball and sprayed the baby down with the hose. Not only would that
have washed the ants off all at once (instead of the interminable, “Here’s one!
We killed that mean ant for you, oh, another one! Got that, oh no! Another one!”)
but it would have instantaneously cooled bites that I assumed burned like hell.
Not that it would have made for a calm night, especially if my sister-in-law
had walked in at the moment her shrieking infant daughter was being hosed down
by her sister and baby sitter. In that scenario, I pictured my wife’s sister
snatching her small fry from the stream of water (it would require a fairly
powerful blast to wash away all the bugs) and most likely losing her shit over
her sister’s child care skills, hell, I’d probably end up in the middle of it
and end up turning the hose on all three females in my backyard. Instead, my
wife whisked her charge into the house to slather the still-screeching baby in
Apsercreme, leaving me to my mind movie of a small child being sprayed down with
a hose.
My beer and I went for a quick journey to investigate where
this infestation resided. I hadn’t been aware of any ants in my lawn but my
interest in my back yard goes only as far as the end of the patio. Sure, I kept
my lawn trimmed on a bi-weekly basis, I think (not sure if bi-weekly means
every other week or twice a week) but I take a quasi-Zen approach to mowing and
stay focused on the cool one waiting for me at the end of my chore, with little
mind left for ants. Stepping over a mud bucket full of sun-bleached toys, I
walked to where the imp had been howling, bits of dead grass littering the tips
of my shoes. I bent over a bare patch and flicked my lighter, bringing a little
sun to my new neighbors, illuminating a nice little ant village. One was soon
up my flip flop and on my foot – the little fuckers did sting, it didn’t feel
great at all – and my hate for the ants became immediate and intense. I
squatted down and applied my lighter to several strays, their bodies spazzing
out and making a snap. My flame revealed a series of small mounds about the
size of my wife’s nipples, they’d made themselves a nice little home in my yard
and that pissed me off. Presumptuous little turds, they weren’t getting a free
ride from me.
Overwhelmed by the self-righteous anger of an aggrieved landowner, I flipped out my willie
and let loose a flood from the better part of a six. No one could say I had
enlarged prostate problems, my bladder must be the size of a football. My piss
pounded the array of mounds, ants struggling in the current like little extras
in a biblical epic. There was enough in me for me to obliterate each and every
hole they’d dug, turning their entire town into a sea of mud. My flow continued
as I focused the stream on individual ants, drowning them in the buckets of
piss coming out of me, all, “Ha ha, take that you segmented-bodied bastards!”
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