I'm not a violent person. I think anyone who knows me can attest to that. Still, going back to my pre-teen years I have occasionally exhibited signs of what we might call a "quick temper."
I once got mad at our local Walmart and wished certain doom on the store because they were out of stock of Skid Row's newest album, "Slave To The Grind." I'd specifically planned to get the cassette tape that day and when it wasn't there, well, my whole weekend was shot. How was I going to listen to the song "Monkey Business" now?!
I once wished destruction on a clothing store because the jeans I bought (without trying them on) were too small in the waist and too long for my stubby-ass legs. I was not only mad at the store, I was mad at my own body for not fitting in the jeans. I went on a rant, rhetorically asking the universe, "How am I supposed to buy clothes? There isn't a fat midget section in any of the stores!"
(My apologies to people of short stature. I get that the word "midget" is inappropriate and disrespectful. In my defense I did not get that back then, in the mid nineties. I was just a dumb kid with ill-fitting pants, saying any idiotic thing I could think of in my rage. No insult intended.)
I punched a lawnmower once.
I suppose there should be some context here, though it won't make much difference. You see, I bought a zero-turn mower when we moved into our last house. I got that puppy out and had it buzzing through the back yard one day soon after, and things were going just fine. It had rained a couple of days prior, and I had yet to learn that the very back edge of our property tends to get swampy when that happens.
I was putting along when I noticed the mower getting a little drift every now and then. Soon afterward it just stopped in the middle of the yard. I pushed the throttle sticks forward. The mower spun in place. I got off the thing, walked around it, determined it was stuck in the mud, and figured it would be easy to push out. I put it in neutral, got behind it, and shoved. It didn't move but my feet did. I caught myself before they slipped completely out from under me. In the mud it was like standing on ice - "slicker 'n owl shit," as some old folks say. I slipped and slid a couple more times, trying to find traction with my shoes, before I gave up.
Then I had an idea. I found a few flat pieces of cardboard and wedged them under the tires as best I could. The idea (don't laugh) was that the tires would rotate, pull the cardboard beneath them, and the cardboard sheets would give enough traction for the tires to grab, thus propelling the mower out of the ruts it had gouged into my land. Sounded pretty good at the time.
I climbed onto the mower and pushed the throttle forward, and the carboard pieces shot out behind the mower. The mower then sunk firmly back into its mudholes.
Up until that point I'd been pretty patient, I thought. My wife had taken to watching me through the kitchen window. My hero, she must have thought as the cardboard and mud blasted from behind the mower like it had a case of explosive diarrhea. By the time she'd walked out there to assist my ears were turning red and my eye was twitching.
"Here let me help," she said. I figured, with a little extra muscle, I should shift back to my first tactic and try pushing it out. So, we got behind it again and started pushing. Zero-turn mowers, come to find out, are frickin' heavy, especially on their ass-end. We pushed and slipped for a minute or so before I said "Okay, why don't you get on it, give it some gas, and I'll push." Nikki climbed aboard and did just that.
What threw me over the edge is that, on that last run, not only did I NOT get the mower unstuck, I got a healthy spattering of mud across my arms, chest, and cheeks.
I think I yelled. "MOVE! MOVE YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"
By that point Nikki had gotten off the mower and was watching my feeble attempts to push it free. She helped again, but I noticed she kept giving me the side eye. And why not? I was a freaking lunatic.
It happened.
I slammed my fist down onto the motor. "Move you piece of shit!"
Nikki continued to stare at me as I pushed and pushed with my shoes slipping through the mud behind me, until I gave up. Eventually we did get the thing out but it was a grade A booger-bear to do it.
So really that's it. That's the time I punched a lawnmower. You tell me that sonofabitch didn't have it coming, though. You tell me that!
So at this point, if you're still reading at all, you're probably thinking "Why is he telling me all this?"
My friends, I think the rage has been passed down. A week ago I was sitting on my bed watching TV when my daughter, who was sitting beside me watching my tablet, started getting mad. Every few seconds she would grunt or squeal in frustration. A minute or so later I hear a CLACK!
I looked over at her. "Did you just punch the tablet?"
"It won't play my videos!" She said. The way she said it was accusatory, like she was telling on a kid at the playground.
From the corner of my eye I had seen her tapping the screen, trying to get the video thumbnail to activate. When it didn't work she made a fist and straight-up decked it.
And that's my girl. My chip off the ol' block. That's the kind of issues she gets to deal with thanks to the genetics passed down to her, courtesy of her lawnmower fighting dear old dad. You're welcome Abby.
Moral of the Story:
Just when you think you've got a handle on your own issues you find out that your kid has them too. So, you get to deal with those issues for another 18+ years, in the form of a smaller version of yourself that still has to figure it all out. Fun stuff.
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