| Humor Flash Fiction posted January 17, 2021 |
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Super-saturated, cling-free
Garish Green in a FLASH
by Elizabeth Emerald
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
Last spring, my front lawn, such as it isn't, suffered further devastion on account of the piss from a pit bull bitch.
I mean that in the literal sense: Mia is a good-tempered, albeit rambunctious, creature. I use the term only because it's on account of her bitchiness that my "lawn" got ruined beyond the realm of euphemism; female dogs have a hormone in their urine that's toxic to grass (crabgrass, alas, excluded).
The upshot is that my yellowed yard was peppered with crop circles.
I searched the hardware store for spray paint. Golf-course green was out of the running, as was yellow-green (a shade which, given my moribund grass, tends optimistically toward its post-hyphen component).
A friend informed me of spray paints intended for lawn touch-up. After checking reviews online, I ordered a two-pack of a product (the brand name of which, mercifully, I cannot recall).
Strike one: the gross unsuitability of its preternatural shade, a la Emerald City in electrified Technicolor.
Strike two: the pump mechanism made application tedious, as well as torturous to the hands, both of which are required to expel the recalcitrant paint.
Strike three: the liquid boomerang-ed off the dead grass and pooled onto the six surrounding blades.
A neighbor suggested that I patch in sod. That would have looked worse: healthy green against the sickly yellow surround is more of a contrast than is tan against yellow.
Thus, I hung tight till November; the lush carpet of withered leaves makes for flawless camouflage.
Last spring, my front lawn, such as it isn't, suffered further devastion on account of the piss from a pit bull bitch.
I mean that in the literal sense: Mia is a good-tempered, albeit rambunctious, creature. I use the term only because it's on account of her bitchiness that my "lawn" got ruined beyond the realm of euphemism; female dogs have a hormone in their urine that's toxic to grass (crabgrass, alas, excluded).
The upshot is that my yellowed yard was peppered with crop circles.
I searched the hardware store for spray paint. Golf-course green was out of the running, as was yellow-green (a shade which, given my moribund grass, tends optimistically toward its post-hyphen component).
A friend informed me of spray paints intended for lawn touch-up. After checking reviews online, I ordered a two-pack of a product (the brand name of which, mercifully, I cannot recall).
Strike one: the gross unsuitability of its preternatural shade, a la Emerald City in electrified Technicolor.
Strike two: the pump mechanism made application tedious, as well as torturous to the hands, both of which are required to expel the recalcitrant paint.
Strike three: the liquid boomerang-ed off the dead grass and pooled onto the six surrounding blades.
A neighbor suggested that I patch in sod. That would have looked worse: healthy green against the sickly yellow surround is more of a contrast than is tan against yellow.
Thus, I hung tight till November; the lush carpet of withered leaves makes for flawless camouflage.
I mean that in the literal sense: Mia is a good-tempered, albeit rambunctious, creature. I use the term only because it's on account of her bitchiness that my "lawn" got ruined beyond the realm of euphemism; female dogs have a hormone in their urine that's toxic to grass (crabgrass, alas, excluded).
The upshot is that my yellowed yard was peppered with crop circles.
I searched the hardware store for spray paint. Golf-course green was out of the running, as was yellow-green (a shade which, given my moribund grass, tends optimistically toward its post-hyphen component).
A friend informed me of spray paints intended for lawn touch-up. After checking reviews online, I ordered a two-pack of a product (the brand name of which, mercifully, I cannot recall).
Strike one: the gross unsuitability of its preternatural shade, a la Emerald City in electrified Technicolor.
Strike two: the pump mechanism made application tedious, as well as torturous to the hands, both of which are required to expel the recalcitrant paint.
Strike three: the liquid boomerang-ed off the dead grass and pooled onto the six surrounding blades.
A neighbor suggested that I patch in sod. That would have looked worse: healthy green against the sickly yellow surround is more of a contrast than is tan against yellow.
Thus, I hung tight till November; the lush carpet of withered leaves makes for flawless camouflage.
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