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!”