The Truth about Moving the Lawn

This is not about the metaphorical 'mowing of the lawn.' We're talking about grass here. Real grass. Not the metaphorical grass you find on a woman's nether regions. Mowing here refers to literally cutting the grass. Not carpet munching or copulation or some other metaphorical sexual act that impinges upon your perverted mind.

In the beginning of time when man had just freshly evolved from a newt, his priorities were food and women. He was either chasing or being chased by wild animals, kidnapping and raping wives, trying to hump first and then eat anything with a pulse and drawing cartoons on cave walls. Those were the good old times. Then the bugger decided to evolve a little more and became Homo Habilis, a tool user, with a penchant for polishing his 'own tool'. Mr Homo Habilis then one day downed tools one afternoon and decided to grab a bit of kip on the patch of grass in front of his hut. This is the day the lawn was born and the last time Mr. Habilis was going to have his afternoon nap. His free time- the time he was able to save because of his tools - would now forever be lost to that patch of grass called the lawn.

I personally hate lawns and I know the feeling is mutual. I don't have a green thumb, as a matter of fact I have what is called 'the touch of death' thumb to to anything with chlorophyll in it. I'm a plant serial killer. The Ted Bundy in the botanical kingdom. If you count the number of plants I've wasted and the ways in which I have wasted them, it would make Jack the Ripper look like a naughty boy. My lawn has black patches of earth that look like the've been scorched with some sci-fi super lazer. It has areas that are completely overrun by an assorted gang of broad leaved mutated weeds that could be the hell spawn of a nuclear disaster. It has patches of dense mini jungles, probably with mini anacondas and mini jaguars fighting each other. I've tried everything. From digging up the black patches to applying gallons of weed and feed, to using weedkiller to begging and pleading with the grass. Many a time, in my mind, I have relived the pleasure of dowsing my lawn with petrol and setting it alight, then grabbing the ashes in both hands and yelling like a banshee to the sky.

You spend your weekends moving it, edging it, weeding and feeding it, and it repays your love like the child in exorcist. Maybe I could manufacture little nanobots or genetically modify some insect like creature to kill the weed between the grass and make sure there is only one type of grass and not 500 like I have now. Or maybe pretend my lawn is Vietnam and fly small remote control F4 Phantoms over my lawn and drop small napalm bombs and de-foliating agents on it. Or individually pull out some weeds, torture them the way the CIA tortured the Iraqis and replant them so they can go and scare the other weeds into surrendering or committing suicide. Or possibly baptising the weeds and training them as alta boys and then bringing a priest to my home. What does one have to do?

There have to be low maintenance alternatives to the lawn. Astro turf is probably too expensive and green coloured carpets might smell after a while, and tiling the entire garden might make it look like a toilet. I beleive that man is more intelligent and capable than most plants. However, when it comes to the lawn, I have my doubts. The score is currently Lawn:100, Me:0, and that really sucks.