A little green goes a lot of different ways

by Ken Carpenter

The Grass Is Always Greener

The following story is about the color green, written in 2003. Green is not my favorite color, though it is not offensive and I wear it quite often. Those who do love it are said to be caring to others, have a fierce need to belong, hate details, drift into gossipy behavior at times, have to battle jealousy and envy and take long, smelly poops.
Well, I may have taken some liberties with that last one. Regardless, it is the color of harmony and balance, it symbolizes hope, renewal and peace and it also causes penises to shrivel and vaginas to gape.
Damn! That little bastard on my left shoulder is working overtime tonight.
Green is supposedly number two on the top ten favorite color list in America.
I guess shriveling and gaping runs rampant everywhere.

Green is all over these days. Grass is still popping up, greenbacks are diving across nursery counters, you can find people on every corner who look green around the gills and squinty-eyed glares green with front-yard envy are rampant.
There are those who would kill for their neighbor’s lawn. To the casual observer, like me, grass is grass. To the fanatic it is pure gold.
Yes, it feels good to the toes. Unfortunately it also attracts doggy booby traps, which are also partial to toes. My own feet are strangers to bare ground, given their tendency to find sharp, disgusting, or biting objects.
Grass also adds to the atmosphere at a baseball game. Whether playing or watching, the appeal of our national pastime suffers when played on dirt or an old, brown pasture.
I have to admit, a thrilling element of danger is added when you have to dodge cow patties as you chase down a fly ball. It’s funny how manure coated shoes seem to curtail any Willie Mays fantasies you may like to indulge in though.
Personally, I wouldn’t mind if all my grass turned to rocks overnight. My lawn mower and I have a mutual hate thing going that dampens any of my enthusiasm for grass of any kind.
Why don’t I just shoot it and put it out of my misery, you might ask?
It is really quite simple Watson. It is because all pull-start, gas powered machines and I have a mutual, life-long hate thing going with each other. They can’t stand the sight of my face, and my own eyes turn vicious when they spy one sitting there smirking at me.
Even if somebody else successfully starts a machine on the first pull fifty times in a row, it will go on strike as soon as I get my club-fingered little hands on it. If it starts at all, it will wait until its crank has been yanked forty times and I am within one minute of collapsing with exhaustion.
Once it establishes who is boss, it will grudgingly fire up unless it is in need of a longer nap. In that case, all the brains in NASA could not start it.
Not until I step around the corner anyway. At that point, it will start purring like a kitten with one pull.
I need to change the subject. I am grinding my teeth to nubs just thinking about my first post-winter session with that squatting demon lurking in my shed. I should just buy another goat, but I fear it would not like me either and they have teeth.
Getting back to green for a minute, I am reminded of the team colors of the Boston Celtics. Not because I like them, but because they were central to a tale of sisterly woe from the 1960’s.
At that time my brother, our friends, and I would shoot baskets by the hour on a short (very short) rim that we could dunk on. We would each pretend to be our favorite NBA stars as we played countless simulated playoff games.
My sweet, too-soon departed, younger sister, Elana, watched us day after day, and she finally decided she wanted to play too. We were not pleased by this unexpected development, but we soon relented with a few stipulations.
We let her play, though she had to stay out of the way and be satisfied with an occasional shot or pass. Oh yeah, and she also got the privilege of being Satch Sanders.
Every single time.
We convinced her that Satch was the stud of the NBA and that it was a supreme sacrifice by her caring brothers to allow her to be him, when we all really wanted to. She was pleased as punch that she got to be the handsome, talented Satch.
Every single time.
In reality, Satch was one of the ugliest humans who ever drew a breath, as well as being a member of the hated Celtics.
Well, one day we were watching a basketball game on TV and sis wandered in and sat down. As luck would have it, the Celtics were playing and the sweaty, almost deformed looking Satch Sanders was getting ready to shoot a free throw.
My cronies and I looked at each other, trying hard to keep a straight face, and when Satch’s name popped up under his face you could have heard an ant burp.
“Saaaaaaatch!” she shrieked in an inhuman voice, for her mortification had even seeped into her vocal cords.
All of the conspirators collapsed into giggling lumps on the floor, numb to the pummeling she proceeded to dole out to us. She called us a string of less than complimentary names, and swore she would hate us all forever.
Her short basketball career had come to an end, but her career as Satch was only beginning.
She soon stopped hating us, but she never could stand the sight of a Celtics jersey.
I guess we shouldn’t have called her Satch all those years, for even when we should have been old enough to quit but didn’t, but a guy always hates to give up an advantage.

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