There is an area outside my house that some might refer to as my lawn, and which I affectionately call the “ungrassy knoll.” And this is that dreaded time of year when it becomes quite apparent that this area and I disagree as to what color it should be. It looks like someone hit it with “Agent Orange,” since it is more orange than green. At least during the winter I am able to brag about how nice my lawn is, because it is under three inches of snow.

I finally found something green on the lawn, which was a patch of moss. I was watering the moss hoping to at least keep that alive, when Paul from next door strolled over. He’s the one who has to come over and fix all the things that I manage to screw up, and he had to retire from his job because I kept causing so many problems he was afraid they would spill over onto his property, and eventually the entire neighborhood.

“You gotta get rid of this moss. Did you put lime on it?” Paul from next door asked.

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“Of course I put lime on it. Any idiot knows you have to put lime on it, and that’s how come I know it so well. I also put some lemon on it just in case. Smell this lawn.”

I went down to smell the lawn and I almost tripped over a hole. There are all these holes in the ground around my house now, and they seem to lead to a complicated system of underground tunnels. I assumed that they were made by the infamous Mexican drug kingpin nicknamed “El Chapo.”

By the way, in case you do not have an extensive knowledge of the Spanish language, as I do, the English translation for “El Chapo” is “The Chapo.” Also, not to show off, but “LL Cool J” means “The The Cool J.” When I was in grade school, they made us memorize the numbers one through 10 in Spanish, but I kept getting them mixed up with the books of the Bible, which I had to learn for Sunday School.

Anyway, Paul from next door took a look at all the holes in the ground and said I should put mothballs in them. How am I supposed to get those? The moths themselves aren’t going to want to part with them easily. But I found them at the hardware store and tossed them down the holes, even though I doubt that moths dug them in the first place.

If the tunnels are mixed up with the “El Chapo” operation, the infamous drug kingpin is going to have zero holes in his sweater from moths, so he’s probably never going to leave. He may even get himself an infamous drug queenpin to move in with him. In that case, my idea is to get hold of Sean Penn and a Mexican actress, to talk some sense into him. I would do it myself, but if I mistakenly say “Leviticus” instead of one of the Spanish numbers, I’m going to look like a dope.

“Hey Paul, come over here and look at these flower beds, they are so much better than yours,” I challenge.

“I haven’t seen anything bloom over there since the early 1970s,” he replies.

“That’s what I mean! These flower beds are so comfortable that the flowers sleep through anything.”

Paul looked at me with that look that he has, you know the one. But I didn’t want to press the issue, since he has a huge wood chipper, and I haven’t seen the guy from two houses down in quite a while.

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