Bob McSmith was a humble fellow. He enjoyed the fresh air, chatting with friends, the wind in his face and a good bath. Pets, extreme weather and spiky cleats weren’t favorites though. Actually, he wasn’t really fond of any shoes at all. They had a nasty habit of hurting him. He had been living in the same place all is life because he never had the desire or ability to move from his abode. In fact, he never moved at all unless it was windy. Was it because he was quadriplegic? No, he was actually pretty healthy. Why couldn’t he move then? There was a simple explanation for that. Bob McSmith wasn’t human, or even an animal. He was a blade of grass.
Yes, Bob’s ass was indeed grass, as was the rest of him because he was….well, you know. All his life he had been in the same backyard with his millions of brothers and sisters, dancing and chatting like the rest of them. That’s all grass did. What else could they do? They had no arms or legs, kind of important things when you want to do something. Unfortunately, grass would never evolve to that advanced of a state so all they blades did was sway in the wind and chatter amongst each other.
Bob hated this life though. He saw what humans did. All the barbeques, parties and campfire sing-alongs looked so fun. Even their form of dancing looked better. Much more gyrating and shaking. Alas, he would be grass for the rest of his life so he did the best with what he had. It was a simple life of solitude and Bob supposed it wasn’t the worst life he could have. He could be dirt. Yes, dirt was much worse off than grass. All they did was feed grass and house lots of creepy crawlies. Truly disgusting is how he would have put it. Grass had the good life compared what lay underneath it. At least, it seemed that way until the family residing in the house on the property got a dog.
Bob was snoozing peacefully, dreaming of Scott’s Turf Builder and infinite rain when all of a sudden he heard a noise. A scary noise. The sound of death. No, worse than death. It was a dog. The Miltons had just picked up their new pet; a pug named Bruno, and decided it was a good idea to let him loose on the unsuspecting lawn. Of course, they had no idea it had feelings so they didn’t realize how truly devastating the damage was.
“Shit.” he said rather deadpanned as the dog did just that on his brothers Ted, Jed, Fred, Ed, Ned and Jim. The apocalypse was nigh and Bob was caught right in the middle of it.
He watched helplessly as the dog lifted his leg and pissed yellow death onto his brothers and sisters. Why had God made him so useless? All he was good for was making the Milton’s backyard look better and being cannon fodder for a great beast. If there even was a God, he was surely laughing at them now.
Oh no. This was not good. Bruno was making his way to the flowerbed. All of his cousins were going to be maimed in cold blood. Why was this happening? Again, he was a helpless onlooker watching mass genocide. The flowers were being uprooted with such savagery it was unbearable to even look. Petals and stigma were separated from their stems with ease. The only time Bob had seen more gore was in a commercial for lawn mowers and even then, it was a close race. What would be next? All of a sudden, he caught a glimpse of the bone.
It was quite massive as far as bones went. To Bob, it looked like some museum was missing a piece for its Brontosaurus exhibit. He hoped perhaps it would be too big for Bruno to carry, not unrealistic since the bone was so damn big. This was only hopeless optimism though. Bruno could indeed carry the bone and he was headed Bob’s way. Bob said a quick prayer and braced himself for the worst.
Maybe God had heard Bob’s prayer or perhaps Bruno was just lazy. The bone plopped down a half a meter away from Bob and started digging. Luckily, Bob was just out of the digging radius and instead was subjected to yet another sight of dog on plant violence. He almost wished that he would have gone with them or at least had some clippers so he could cut himself with them. Then he realized he was being emo like 500,000 of his brothers and sisters and was better than that so he dropped all suicidal thoughts from his small grassy mind.
Seriously though, wouldn’t it suck to have a bunch of your family killed right in front of you? You’d probably want vengeance so you’d put a skull shirt on, amass a large arsenal of guns and kill them. Wait, I just described the Punisher. Weird. Maybe you wouldn’t go that far but still, it would suck for that to happen.
Bob was ready to go that far though. If he had the ability to fire guns, he would have busted a cap in that dog’s ass. As Bruno the Brutal filled in the hole for his stupid bone that he would dig up the next day, Bob made gun sounds and imagined himself with arms holding a Desert Eagle. This was stupid though. He knew that very well that God did not intend to ever give grass arms because he was too busy laughing his ass off at their situation.
Surprisingly, Bruno was not satisfied with his already impressive killing spree. His stomach was empty after the crap he had just taken so he started chewing up some of the turf untouched from his digging. Bob was starting to lose it.
“Damn dog! Why do you have to eat so much? Also, why are you so ugly? You are probably THE ugliest monster I’ve ever laid my eyes on and I’ve seen Rosie O’Donnel!”
Unbelieibly, Bruno seemed to understand this and was livid. He started barking hysterically and drooling all over. Drops of saliva rained over Bob and he thought dryly that this was probably the worst shower he’s ever had. Bruno must have been a mind reader too because he started producing drool at a greater rate, turning the shower into a full out flood.
He started making his way slowly to Bob who was silently sobbing. He was going to go out like a bitch and he could nothing about it. It looked like it was Bob’s last stand. Life was flashing before his eyes. He saw the seeds being planted, his sprout into the world, his first grass cut and everything else all before his eyes. What was that sound in the distance though? It was either just the Miltons or the voice of God Himself. Either way, it was the best sound Bob had ever heard in his short life.
“Bruno? What the hell have you done to the yard? Bad dog! You’re not getting a treat tonight because of your behavior! Get inside before you can do anything else!”
Bruno all of a sudden looked scared and bolted into the house where he would receive either capital punishment or a stern scolding. Bob was hopeful for the first one but knew the second one was much more likely. Plant murder just wasn’t as big a deal to humans as human murder.
For some reason, Bob was laughing at everything that just happened. Why though? Thousands of his own cellulose and roots were killed before his eyes (figuratively speaking of course). There was nothing funny about it. I guess he just figured that after fearing for his life after watching the whole ordeal, he must have just run out of sadness. That wasn’t true though. There was a bigger meaning to his laughter.
Bob had just realized God did exist. What else could explain the miraculous appearance of Bruno’s owners before he was chomped to bits? It had to be God. There was just no other plausible explanation for that random burst of luck. He felt like Jules from Pulp Fiction when all the magnum bullets fired at him missed totally.
This was pretty good thinking, at least for a bit. Bob then had another realization. Bruno wasn’t dead. He’d be back tomorrow to finish the job.
“Fuck.” Bob muttered tiredly and went to sleep. Tomorrow would come but he didn’t care. Tomorrow he’d be tall enough to trip that mutt and wrap him up. Vengeance WOULD come. First a nap though. Even revenge could wait for a nap.
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