Survive 'er!

That's the name of my new reality show. It's said with the same inflection as that annoying phrase, "Get 'er done!" which is replacing "Cowboy up!" on bumper stickers and beer cozies all across Norco. Since only an authentic cowboy can properly pronounce the name of my show, the host will be Mat McBride.

Stunning, isn't he?
I got the idea for my show while watching the first installment of this season's Survivor: Guatemala. The first challenge had the Survivors slogging through eleven miles of dense jungle. At around mile nine I was thinking, "Well, this is kind of dull." But then, a spike covered branch falls out of a tree and conks a Survivor. Then the dude starts throwing up. It was awesome. I can't wait until the next time somebody asks me, "If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?" I'm gonna say, "A tree with frickin' spikes that throws branches at passers-by and makes them puke." Then I'll be writing my blog with a crayon between my teeth because my sporty new jacket would be a bit too tight in the wrists and waist, if ya know what I mean. That would be cool.
After the two tribes finished their race, the sheer physical strain of the event had four contestants clutching their guts, barfing, and rolling around on the ground just like an episode of Reba does to me. (And everyone else I presume. How could it not?)
The person in the most serious condition was the returning tough guy, Bobby Jon. He was lying flat on his back when his eyes rolled up into his head and he started speaking gibberish. (which is not a real language I'm told). I then saw a small flash of metal near his arm and distinctly heard a sinister voice off camera say, "There'll be no more AAAAHHHH-AAAAHHHH-aaaaahhhhhhhh! But you may feel a little sssssiCK!" Then Bobby Jon got up and did an interview.
That's when I had the idea for Survive 'er! I want to film a show that will seek to determine exactly how much punishment the human frame will endure without dying. I committed nearly fourteen seconds to formulating life threatening scenarios and once again found to my disappointment that thinking is hard. That's why the entire script will be based on Tom and Jerry cartoons. I'm just going to have contestants perform upon one another everything that ever happened to Tom and/or Jerry. Tom is the cat. If you get Tom and Jerry mixed up, here's a little rhyme to help you remember which is which: "Thirty days hath September, Tom's the friggin' cat."
For example, forget tossing coconuts into a basket. I'm gonna have one contestant stuff another's mouth with bullets and then conk him across the back of the head with the butt end of a revolver.
Can you.......Survive 'er!?
Or how about this?:

Oh man, this thing just writes itself. (Or rather someone else wrote it and I'll be stealing it.)
I can hardly wait to see a bulldog pull a certified public accountant through a knothole in a fence.
Stay tuned......

Okay, where was I?

Oh yeah, stupid classes, upitty fruit snacks, hitting pigeons with rockets, right.....which brings me to my lawn. Diane's going to have a garage sale next week so my contribution is to make the lawn look like I take care of it. I actually use to love lawn care when we first got our house, pride of ownership and all that. I'm thinking now that the whole "pride of ownership" thing is just an insidious form of socialization. It's just this whole rap we feed each other to keep our neighbors in line. Ever wonder why Toro brand lawn care equipment is red? Communisim. Go ahead! Edge, the sidewalk.... COMRADE! Whatever the political implications, at least most of my lawn looks good. The whole thing doesn't look tip-top though. There is a dry spot because something went wrong with my sprinklers and the timer is screwed up. I'm pretty glad I don't know how to fix it because that would probably take forever.
Oh yeah, another part of the job that doesn't look so hot is a cluster of crab grass tufts growing out of the cracks in the driveway. I whacked at 'em for like fifteen minutes with my "The People's Weed Eater" and I just got them down to a managable size. I stopped because I got bored. It looks like a band of Apaches was running through my yard after attacking Troll Town and were in such a hurry to get away they didn't realize it when they dropped half their troll scalps in front of my house. I just can't be bothered to spend too much time on certain stuff like that. It's a good thing that I dropped out of Plastic Surgery on Peoples' Fingers school a couple of years ago. I'm pretty sure I would have gotten sleepy during operations and closed up shop early so I could go grab an Icee.
Patient: Hey doc, I uh...well, I was hoping I would have more fingers than this.
ME: Dude, how many fingers does one guy need? Every time you look down at your hand and DON'T see a hook, you say, "thank you".
Patient: thank you.
Yeah baby, that would be sweet! I mean bad. Very very bad.
At least I cleaned up the clippings. That part was pretty cool. I hadn't edged for a while and there was, quite possibly, more vegetation on my sidewalk and driveway than on my actual yard. Hence, I swept together a pile of grass rougly the size of me. It was awesome. It kinda looked like Cousin It from the Adams Family had dyed himself green. Then he tripped and conked his head on my cement, lying there, motionless. Then I threw him away.

No big deal. I hear he was a communist.