That noise you heard late this morning (it may have actually been audible on the ISS (I know there is no sound in space, but that’s only because there is no media by which to transmit the sound waves, but if you had some piece of the atmosphere blown off the earth by a very loud sound that air WOULD carry the wave and you COULD hear it)) was the sound of millions of suburban American men mowing their lawns before the game.
My wife makes me BAG it. I hate that. Men don’t want to BAG (that’s a tinny sort of word). We want to MULCH! That’s a manly sort of word. It reminds us of what we want our team to do to their opponents. Mulch, slice, dice, shred, mince (well, that’s not too manly either, scratch that), rend, obliterate, ANNIHILATE!
On the other hand, bag is like sack and that’s okay. Yeah, honey, I ain’t gunna bag anymore. From now on I’m gunna SACK the clippings.
Yep, it doesn’t matter what team they support. In fall, on Sundays, when the grass is long and the wife is na- er, I mean reminding lovingly, the boys go out and fire up the Toros, Hondas and Lawnboys. It may not be cut well, but it’s cut, and it’s cut before the game starts. That’s what counts.
Sometimes testosterone can be deafening.