Hello, friends. If you’re anything like me, Mr. Falcon, you find yourself at times throughout the day wondering about the bizarre adventures of Mr. Falcon. Maybe you’re working in your garden, shopping or picking up the kids from school and you suddenly think to yourself, “What is wrong with Mr. Falcon?” Or maybe you’re the classy socialite type who wears little black dresses to cocktail parties. And maybe, at a recent event, you overhead some rich and powerful CEOs discussing the enigma that is Mr. Falcon.
"Maybe Mr. Falcon should shut up and get to point of this poorly-written thread, yes?"
In all honesty, I admit that I have no real issue to discuss here. In light of recent turmoil here on JWN, a poorly-rendered CGI warrior wizard and one brave young woman who stood up to some powerful Brooklyn real estate and actually won, I would like to share a rather strange anecdote that happened to me a few years back when I was an active little Ministerial Zombie. It is a gripping tale full of exotic lawn care, swash-buckling BB rifle action and some poor, misguided rodents. It is my sincere hope that you find it enlightening and entertaining. Just kidding, there is no hope. Here we go.
For those unfamiliar with my living arrangements, I live on a decent size property in the middle of farm country. As such, I have a fairly sizable garden for vegetables and herbs that I use for both cooking and casting spells on my enemies. Anywho, being that I’m in the middle of an agricultural area, my garden from time to time gets overrun with Omaha Beach-like waves of hungry rabbits. I have attempted to try humane tactics to thwart their furry blitzkrieg, but ultimately, I was forced to go to the ole’ trusty Pump Master 760. Not exactly a real cannon, but good enough for what I needed.
If you're not prepared to kill a few Fraggles, then you're not ready to plant radishes.
During this time, attending the congregation I went to, there was an elderly infirmed couple. Being the loving Christian brother, I would load the lawnmower onto the truck and head on over to their house to cut their HUGE lawn. I typically did this after I cut the Kingdom Hall lawn, because for all intents and purposes, I was a gigantic doormat and brown-noser. I was intoxicated with Holy Spirit (which evidently, is similar to being intoxicated on Night Train, but that’s a tale for another day). These folks had an enormous lawn and sometimes I wouldn’t be able to get the truck over so I would be forced to use their piece-of-crap-busted-ass push mower. Add to that the balmy 100+ degree weather we were getting at the time and one would easily begin to see comfort in death. Oh, and let’s not forget the numerous yellowjacket nests that were in the ground hidden throughout the yard. Apparently, Vespula germanica doesn’t take too kindly to having lawn equipment being dragged over the roof of its home.
"No thanks, we have our own religion. But can I offer you some painful venom?"
On one occasion I was just finishing up the cutting and all I had left to do was the front yard. There was a patch of tall grass sticking up around a drainage pit in the front yard. The JW woman hobbles out and wants to tell me something, so I shut off the lawnmower engine. She points toward the pit and says, “Don’t cut the grass over there because my rabbits live in there.” Now, by “her” rabbits, she was referring to the wild rabbits that just run around the neighborhood, lest anyone believe that these were indeed her actual pets. Smiling, in a poor, yet innocent attempt at humor, I replied, “Understood. At my house I have to shoot them.” THAT IS ALL I SAID, I SWEAR. She gave me this odd look and went back in the house. I finished the lawn, load the truck up, and without even receiving a bloody “thank you”, and I leave. Whatever. Don’t give it another thought. Until, that is, two days later at the Kingdom Hall…
That evening I arrive early at the Kingdom Hall, as usual, to get all the back counter set up with various fictional literatures. While I’m doing this, an elder comes up to me and asks if he could speak to me for a moment. “Sure,” I replied.
“It’s come to our attention that you are in possession of a firearm and are actively killing animals. We feel we need to counsel you on this.”
"In the quiet words of the Virgin Mary....come again?"
My first thought was, “What the hell is this guy talking about? Killing animals?” Then it hit me – the rabbits. Sweet Jews for Jesus, the old coots had dimed me out. Here I was, cutting their lawn for FREE, using my gas, my truck, my time, getting attacked by flying and stinging creations of “God’s love”, passing out from heat stroke and begging for death and these two ungrateful ass-hats complain to the elders that I’m some sort of Jeffrey Dahmer. Then the old husband (himself an elder) starts bitching that I need to get rid of my “weapon”. It’s a mother-loving BB gun! Anyways, I was so pissed off and I went home to research what the ever-knowing Society had to say about this. I’m not going to get into what I read because it was stupid anyway.
Needless to say, I never cut their lawn again and am half-tempted to go back in the middle of the night and use herbicide to write a big F U in their front lawn. I hope you enjoyed this story and will now send me $1 each. But if not, well, that’s cool too. Good day.
