by Bryce Hooton
As I enter the twilight of my life, now an old man, I think about the lessons I could bestow to future generations. I think of the wisdom I’ve gained and the heartache I’ve suffered. If I could say just one thing to the children of the future, it would have to be this:
GET THE HELL OFF MY LAWN!
I've raked it, fertilized it, mowed it and decorated it with an elegant flamboyance of lawn flamingos for over 40 years. Then, to ruin it all, I just know that a bunch of kids in the future, after I'm dead and gone will go tear-assing through the neighborhood and run across my flocculent, manicured lawn with careless abandon. No respect, I tell ya.
Located at the end of a cul-de-sac, my lawn is the lush, verdant hairpiece to my neighborhood’s otherwise rapidly aging visage. It’s the last bastion of suburban dignity within at least 2 blocks and it simply must be preserved for all time. But that's just it. I don't have much time left and I doubt if there's anyone who will watch over it as well as I have. Not the way this world’s going, heh!
Does preservation mean anything to kids in the future? Apparently not, judging by the way they will no doubt carelessly trample upon my precious sod that I toiled over for so long. They'll probably be too busy playing with their robots and raising hell in the neighborhood with their laser guns or what have you. Damn reckless kids.
I really don’t think I’m making a big deal here regarding my future anxiety. I mean, according to Einstein’s theory of relativity, the future and the past are happening simultaneously, so as far as I can tell, I’m just being a responsible citizen. Just doing my bit to prolong this little parcel of paradise during my humble blip of space-time existence.
And another thing; those kids in the future better think twice about stepping on my grass to retrieve their supersonic anti-gravity balls or whatever it is they play with in the future. You gotta respect people's boundaries, daggum it.
If only those whelps-to-be could know whose lawn they’re messing with. I was a pretty awesome guy way before they were born. I had friends. I drove a used Dodge Neon. People knew me. Good luck telling them that. Future kids won’t give a lick about history.
Oh, now what in tarnation is this? It just occurred to me that those impending degenerates will probably taunt my lawn on their hover boards by not technically touching it, but still hovering over the property line. Damned hellions! This used to be a decent neighborhood until those kids in the future start ruining everything.
I know what I’ll do. I’m gonna write a complaint and put it in a time capsule, not to be opened until after I'm dead. Then, whoever opens it can take the issue to the Neighborhood Watch committee that gathers twice a year at Maggie’s house two doors down. That should fix ‘em. In fact, I'm laying a rake down, teeth up in my lawn right now. Once that future delinquent steps on it, they won't know what hit 'em! Future vengeance is mine. Long live my lawn!
Bryce is a writer of humor and a writer of ads. On a good day he'll do both at the same time. When he's not slinging words, he's planning out his next culinary conquest for www.expensiveturds.wordpress.com. He lives in NYC.