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If there’s one thing that will make you question your dignity, it’s a cheap lawnmower on a hot Saturday. Last summer, I borrowed my neighbor Gary’s ancient mower, a rusted beast held together with duct tape and a peanut butter lid for a gas cap. Optimistic, I wheeled it out, only to have the pull cord yank my shoulder like an angry bear, followed by smoke, bangs, and mechanical sneezes.
Once it started, the mower roared like a portable earthquake. The throttle was a suggestion; it surged forward while I jogged behind, trying to look in control. A small rock flew like a cannonball, the grass bag detached, and I tripped over bees defending their wildflower patch. The smell of burnt toast signaled more trouble: oil levels were apparently a mystery even to Gary.
By the end, the handle snapped, and I steered one-handed while finishing the lawn. Finally, the mower sighed in relief. Lessons learned: never trust a peanut butter gas cap, bees hate surprise landscaping, and my dignity isn’t worth free lawn care.
