The night air felt cold against my skin. There I was in shorts and an undershirt, walking back from throwing out the garbage when I heard the cheers and roar of a crowd. It seemed to be coming from my backyard. I stuck to the wall and peered around the corner. There, a large gathering of blades of grass stared at a speaker: another blade of grass, wizened and bent over. He clutched a small twig, his roots trembling in rage, and he roared, "My brothers! Band together against the enemy! The giant scum that weekly decapitates us, spilling our blood that stains his brand-new Pumas green! Damn him and his genocidal machine that murders our mothers, fathers, children, cousins, everyone we hold dear! The infernal noise that is created, the noxious smell of gasoline, the fear we get as he looms closer and closer until finally thwock! Off with our heads! The sight of him humming along to songs from his Walkman, the cursed mongrel! The cur! We are constantly stepped upon, run over, blown on, raked apart! Under the cover of leaves we are forced to freeze on the cold nights and forced to drink the rain. No longer! Tonight we rise up! Tonight victory shall be ours! Under the cover of moonlight we must assault the house! We must barricade the enemy inside his own home, we must chop off his head and let him grow a new one, and cut it off again! It is time, brothers! Force him to endure the pain of a rake ripping him from his roots! The annoyance felt when stepped on! The taste of water from the gutter! It is time!

So, whenever my dad asks why I don't mow the lawn, I tell him because it's his turn.