...except in great suburban swaths of Virginia Beach and Chesapeake, where they pride themselves on thoroughbred seed pedigrees. I have seen Great Neck barons pull out their monocles and sniff at their neighbor thusly: “I see your fescue has been interbreeding again, old chap. This won’t do.” They powder their lawns with succeeding clouds of seeds, fertilizers and weed killers, most of which eventually turn up in the oyster you’re sliding down your throat. “Well, Walt,” you say, “that’s not exactly accurate.” to which my witheringly witty rejoinder is “Eat me.” In this age of birthers, 9/11 deniers, and Republican Presidential candidates, factual accuracy is a pointless elitist luxury. And if expensively manicured lawns aren’t worth pouring money into, what is?
I know I’m starting to sound like a cranky old anarchist (“Starting?” you snort. “Hey, I said Eat me!” I zing back. “No snorting on my blog!”) but that patch of mulatto sod above is infinitely more interesting than the pristine and unnatural swaths of PMS 355 that assault my rods and cones whenever I head beachwards. Just look at all the fascinating things going on in this little patch. It’s sheer beauty, I tell you! Why won’t anybody listen to me? *whine*