I know how you all thrill to my Tales of Yard Work. I’ll give you a second to click “Back” on your browsers.
Okay, so we finally got around to cleaning up the tree limbs from the blizzard earlier in the week, because we’re do-it-yourselfers, which is a synonym for either “masochists” or “cheapskates” or “morons,” your choice. It took hours and it was a total ordeal, but it’s done, so that’s a relief.
But somewhere around hour five, I finally snapped, and I realized I was having thoughts like, “Y’know, I bet this is what those people who live near the X-Men have to deal with all the time. Storm freaks out, and all of a sudden it’s five hours in the yard hauling brush. Yeah, saving the world, blah blah blah. Thanks a lot, and if you think the world feared and hated you before, talk to me after I’m done scrubbing sap out of my hair. Cull the herd, Bendis.”
I forced my mind to go blank after that. Wouldn’t you?