Digging up tree butts is expensive, especially when you just sold a liver (jokes on them!) to have the rest of the tree felled. No one saves money in the hopes of one day removing a dead oak from the backyard. Maybe people with lumberjack fetishes.
“Another $100 and we’ll have enough to hack down the Beech Tree! I’m getting hot just THINKING about it! Want to trim the bushes right now?”
I just read an article about 4000 men who dress up like My Pretty Pony calling themselves “Bronies,” so a lumberjack fetish doesn’t seem so odd now, does it?
Think of the strangest, most impossibly ridiculous hobby you can imagine. Something NO ONE would do.
Yep, someone does that.
Watching men swing around on ropes and lop limbs with chainsaws is exciting in an “America’s Got Talent” sort of way, but tickets to Cirque du Soleil are more affordable. And no matter how I begged, the tree guys refused to don the spandex lion costumes I’d sewn for them. Tree guys are so stuck up. They think they’re SO much better than the lawn guys in the cheetah suits.
Mike and I were bitter about the costs. The stump stayed. I planned to use it as a podium for some sort of giant lawn gnome, maybe one posing like “The Thinker,” to make it look like we left the stump on purpose, but you’d be surprised how hard it is to find a “Thinker” Gnome.
Instead, a year later, we had a vibrant community of termites living in the rotting tree stump we were too cheap to excavate. When the exterminator visited, we had him pump the stump full of death.
The termites were perched in front of their little termite TVs, watching “Ax Men,” (except they call it “House Hunters”), and then:
“Agnes, do you smell something? … Agnes?”
Sometimes I imagine the crumbling stump resembles an abandoned antebellum mansion forgotten somewhere in the swampy crevices of the deep south. Covered in Spanish moss, the hallways echo with the voices of the dead. Dust covers the portraits. Sheets draped over divans flutter with delight as the rare breeze slips through a broken window panes. The bust of Grandpa “Pappy” Thibodaux stares forlornly at the harp on the opposite side of the ballroom, its music silenced forever…
But mostly I think about a young termite couple stumbling upon this once bustling fortress, amazed at their good fortune.
“Can you believe our luck, Honey? We have the whole place to ourselves! Now THIS is a place we can start a family! Hm. We’ll have do something about that odor though. Smell that? Honey? Do you smell that… Honey? HONEY? Noooo!”
Just changed my mind. I want a gnome like Munch’s “The Scream”
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