Sure, I'll mow the lawn. Remind me next month.
By the way, it's called a septic tank, not a skeptic tank. And yes, Irma Bombeck was right. And so are the weeds.
Every Monday morning I go for a hike. I tie up my laces. I put on my cap. And I grab hold of two heavy bags. Then I walk. And walk. And walk. And just when I feel like I can carry the bags no farther, I reach the end of the driveway. Yes, Monday is garbage day.
Out here, we ride our mowers and push our brooms. In the city, we hear you do the reverse.
You go to the grocery store to get your food. We cut out the middle man. We pick our own raspberries (both black and red) out back. And out front. And down the hill. And over in the woods.
We grow our own apples; in fact, the trees might give fruit by next year...hopefully.
And when we're in the mood for chicken, we sit silently at the property line with a hatchet, waiting for a stray bird to accidentally wandering under the fence. Or we drive to town for some KFC.
It's true. The nearest grocery store is seven miles away. But it takes me only seven minutes to get there...which is how long it took me to get out of the condo parking lot when I lived in the city.
We don't need bars. We have bonfires. The action gets pretty hot, especially when we have plenty of wood to burn. And who needs alcohol when you can just stand downwind from the fire?
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