Dearest Jonathan Thomas Bonfiglio,
How naive of you to voice such opinions on the beating of weeds (weed whacking, for those unfamiliar with landscaping vernacular), the esoteric discipline underlying all believed “basic tenets” of the American Dream. When you said these things to me, blasphemous as they were, I did not turn my back on you–nay, I held my tongue in order to better present to you the heavenly visage of weedbeating. Shall I start with your obvious lack of weedbeating experience Your ungrateful opinion of a long day spent whacking plants? Or your hasty stereotyping of a concept so existential, you cannot wrap your thick neck around it, let alone that vacuous head of yours. And, for your own sake, I will not delve into your nascent view of protective eyeglasses, so that none of our contemporaries, save me, will ever have to look upon that hideous eyewear more befitting for an insectoid version of Frankenstein.
In good taste, and in the interest of lucidity in the cognitive processes of my readers, I will elaborate on these truths in respect to their ordinal position in my introductory paragraph.
1. Relative lack of weedbeating experience
Perhaps I should substitute “absolute”, with respect to the fact that only yesterday was your weedbeating cherry popped. Coming from a man who has been beating unwanted vegetation since the tender age of six (incidentally, the same year when I stopped dipping Skoal Cherry and graduated to Skoal Mint), it is nigh impossible to pass judgment on such a complex activity as weedbeating if one has had only one date with it. Consider the experience of sex: Would you judge sex as “boring”, or “tedious”, after your V-card was snatched while you were in a drunken haze and your undersized dick was flying at half-mast? I know I didn’t. And as such, I implore you to reserve judgment of weedbeating until you have had ample opportunity to grasp the full extent of its many wonders.
2. Ungrateful opinion of a day spent whacking weeds
I assure you, it was a task to rein in my emotions when you exclaimed, “Weed whacking a field for 7 hours was so fucking boring!”. As the most esteemed Immortal Technique once said, “You never really know what you got til it’s gone.” It was a task, and mainly because I wake up every fucking day and trudge around the house, unable to procure a conventional job, and subsequently devoid of any clear direction in my daily itinerary…but also mainly because I am defensive of my beater. I would gladly, without objection, cut off my left nut, seal it in a Ziplock bag, and bestow it upon you free of charge, if I were able to weedbeat for even half the amount of time you were.
3. Inability to comprehend to any extent the existential and wholly real qualities of weedbeating
Ah, weedbeating. How I long to wake up to the primal sound of the roaring engine of my Stihl FS-90. For a long time now, I have considered putting an addition on my futon in order to better accommodate my FS-90 when she sleeps with me (as of now, she is too long to comfortably snuggle in with me). When I said that weedbeating is directly comparable to the American set of ideals, I fear some of you might have snickered. Laugh not, my weedbeating brethren, for my comparison shall prove itself to be resting on sound premises. First, let us consider that ubiquitous line, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” Ostensibly, our Founding Fathers seem to be framing a democratic system for the achievement of egalitarian opportunities. I urge you, my comrades, to take this interpretation with an especially sodium-filled grain of salt. Consider the Founders’ ulterior motives, and we shall see that they are, in truth, setting forth a political structure for the sound development of future weedbeating generations!
It takes but two glances at our Constitution to recognize the evolution of these ideals. In the Second Amendment, we are granted the right to bear arms. This stems not from a fear of lawlessness and a desire for peace of mind, but from the outdoorsman legislators who saw the need to protect against “plant activists” and those of inferior weedbeating stock. Again, in the Thirteenth Amendment, whereupon slavery is abolished, these same men were fighting against those who would unleash the nefarious hordes of parasitic weeds upon the estates of the former! Besieged on all sides by an endless sea of encroaching vegetation—“NO MORE!” said these heroic men, and they subsequently passed legislation abolishing the underhanded tactics of those who would enslave other men by the means of a “green army”. This country was founded upon weedbeating, and upon weedbeating it shall endeavor to move forward in this benignly indifferent world of ever-advancing vegetation.
And so I urge you, my dear friend, to reconsider weedbeating. Spend some time with her, become acquainted. Only then will you learn to appreciate the whirl of the 2mm string, the bits and pieces of soft plant flesh your beater throws to you like a cat leaves its kills on your porch, looking for appreciation, and the gentle vibrations as she massages your hands…but most importantly, the feeling of accomplishment and self-identity when you and your beater look out upon a freshly hewn field of fallen enemies.
Sincerely yours in beating,
Richard Joseph Berger