Saturday is typically yard work day. Or as I like to refer to it: my least favorite day of the week. About a year ago I hired a young kid from the neighborhood to look after the lawn. Don't get me wrong, the kid is nice enough - actually he's not a kid. He's a college graduate (community college I think) but he's about as smart as a bag of bricks.
If it wasn't for his mother I wouldn't keep him on, but for 10 bucks a week I get my lawn cut. After a fashion. It's become something of a mystery as to what my lawn will look like from week to week. One time last year Norton decided to cut the words "Fart Head" on my from lawn. I wouldn't have known about it but Mrs. McCleary from across the street could read it from her bedroom window and made a point of letting me know about it, once a day until the next Saturday when Norton came to do his "job".
Well, today Norton arrived and he asked me if I wanted my grass cut. He says this every time he comes over. Now I've got a pretty good sized lawn, and depending on what kind of job Norton does it can take anywhere from an hour and a half to around twenty minutes.
Today it took him three and a half hours. I've not received any phone calls ...
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