My arm is killing me. (And it's not why you think.)
I borrowed a friend's gas-powered Weed Eater today and laid waste to unruly patch of weeds in my back yard. (I was afraid if I left them any longer, they would take over somehow and all would be lost.)
Strapping on a Weed Eater is like adding 5 feet to a man's Penis. I think my testosterone doubled the moment I fired it up. I was ready to tackle any and all grass related troubles. I did my backyard, some edging around the house, the lower troublesome patch and was looking around for something else to whack when I realized I had to stop.
It would have taken me over.
You've just got to know when to whack, and when to put it away.
Oh, I'll pull it out tomorrow, don't you worry.
As soon as my arm stops throbbing.
Later.
You've just got to know when to whack, and when to put it away.
Oh, I'll pull it out tomorrow, don't you worry.
As soon as my arm stops throbbing.
Later.
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