“The grass… the motherfucking grass…” he mutters while swirling his Jack and Fresca, no ice, in a ceramic mug hand-painted to read “#1 PRESIDENT!”
Glancing down at the golden letters he had carefully painted onto the mug after watching a calligraphy tutorial on YouTube, his anger is somewhat soothed. “This mug does not lie,” he thinks to himself, smirking. “But seriously, who do these brazen grass punkass bitches think they are? Not in MY house! Blades? They are going to call themselves ‘blades’ of grass? I will show these ‘grass’ a real blade…”
Reaching into the mini-fridge adjacent to his desk, he pulls out another Fresca, pops it open, and tops off his mug. “Sir… I’m not really sure where you’re going with this…” the head of Facilities Management murmurs in reply.
“By God man! I’m talking about mowing those cocky motherfuckers down! Why just yesterday I was walking across Mac Field and do you know what happened? I could barely see my own damn shoelaces. They were swallowing me, man, the grass… They were swallowing my Giuseppe loafers…”
The President swivels his chair to face the wall, afraid that in making direct eye contact, he might tear up.
“Sir, we already mow the grass fairly regular-“
“NOT REGULARLY ENOUGH DAMMIT! Not regularly enough… I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. Grass are not like you and me… They have no… humanity. Sure, we will feed and nurture their young, make sure they are green and have the necessary resources for growth, but we cannot coddle them. For in return they show not gratitude, but savagery. If we do not mow them down with everything we’ve got, by God, they will climb ever-upward, ever-amuck and swallow anything in sight! They harbor known enemies… grasshoppers, ants, anything you may dream of in your little dark mind…”
The President takes a swig from the Jack Daniels bottle and washes it down with Fresca.
“… Sir… are you saying you would like FM to mow the grass more regularly?”
“A RESOUNDING YES, my boy. This is not just a job. You are the general of an army, an army fighting a most formidable opponent… You must rally your soldiers to fight this grass day in and day out until the cold comes. Like our Russian brothers before us in their fight against Nazi Germany, the cold will prove our greatest asset and ally. Until then, we must give them HELL!”
The President begins to punch and thrash at the air violently. He smacks himself in the forehead a number of times. The head of FM examines his fingernails then looks down at the carpet.
“Very well, sir… “
“You know what you have to do. Godspeed.”