My idiot brother who was, at a young age, a professional procrastinator, had waited too long to obey Dad's order to mow the back yard. When patience finally ran out, he got a swat to the azz and told to mow the grass NOW.
Pouting, dubmass gets on the old Snapper rear engine rider (Forrest Gump machine) and begins fulfilling his obligation. Quickly distracted by a large wet area from a hard rain, he decided to do long wheelies through it in high gear, laughing maniacally. I typically just went around this spot, as Dad was a real stickler about the grass he worked so hard to grow. I watched my idiot brother for a while from afar through a window with disbelief at his stupidity, as I knew what was inevitably coming.
Seeing his labors ruined by his own lazy entitled progeny, he watched silently for a few minutes as little brother sailed again and again through the low spot, slinging mud and ripped up turf, giggling like Lettuce posting black penises on Sixpack.
I smiled a little when Dad decided to stroll over, out of view of dubmass, who was having too much fun to notice the dangerous man with a military style gait coming for him. When the laughing moron turned the corner for another pass, he almost ran right into ol' Pop. Over the sound of the mower, I heard him clearly yell, "Having a good time, a s s h o l e?" Little brother was yanked off the mower and in one fluid motion, the subsequent beating began, much to my delight. In his rage, Dad had not noticed that the mower was still in high gear, halted only by brother's foot, which was no longer on the clutch. The mower began spinning against the mud the instant dummy's beating began. While delivering a healthy dose of justice on that azz, Dad had not yet noticed the mower was slowly gaining traction on drier ground and started doing riderless circles through the edge of the now gigantic mud hole.
When the whipping finally ended to my disappointment, Pop had to run over to the old Snapper which was happily turning circles and making new patterns in the yard. When he jumped on it, his feet, now caked with a muddy gumbo, he almost slid off the other side, Bo Duke style, and struggled to stop the machine since his feet kept slipping off the pedals. When his rage subsided to a level where he could think, he simply turned the key off. After the machine slowly came to a halt, I'll never forget that view. Dubmass, covered in mud, crying, making the slow walk of shame back to the house for some mommy's boy consolation. Dad, sitting on a now silent mower, both covered in mud, staring at my brother, debating what the threshold for felony child abuse might be. My brother is lucky to have made it to adulthood. Good times.
