The New Yard Guy Meets Quasimodo

So she's got this new yard guy and I guess I'm a little jealous.

There use to be a time I would be out there with a lawn mower, till, or chainsaw, doing whatever it took to prove my love, sweating like a Coke-bottle-in-the-sun, visualizing the blow job I might earn when it was done (in a kind, loving, mutual oral-sexual relationship way, that is to say). 

Now, however, I have this issue.  The Doctor's not sure and so of course I'm fearing cancer because, well, she's got this new yard guy.  I take it as one of those angelical signs that the gods are sending my replacement to her now while I'm still alive so they'll be able to talk about what a great guy I was over a pitcher of lemonade at the wake.

Ever wonder why they call it a Wake?  I do.  Shouldn't it be called a Sleep?

I haven't met the new yard guy yet, but I'm sure he's one of those well-built Latin guys with long black hair and an oxygen-depleting smile.   He won't be a hunchbacked Quasimodo looking for sanctuary in a belfry from having overreacted to the tenderness of a woman.  No.  

That's me.

Oh! que ne suis-je de pierre comme toi!
Oh! why am I not of stone, like you?
                          The Hunchback of Notre Dame bk. 9. ch.4 (1831)

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