Cussing up a storm 

The Lawn-Cutting Crew is a humor fiction blog. It's sort of like a comic strip, but without the drawings. It offers self-contained chapters and lots of laughs.

It was late afternoon, and we were working at one of our last accounts. It had been an excruciating day. The temperature was brutal, the sun ceaselessly searing our necks and frying our brains. Everyone was exhausted and ready to go home.

Crew Leader Carl had been in a miserable mood all day. I think he was hungover, and that coupled with the heat had made him downright unbearable. He had been cussing us out all day, weaving thick tapestries of profanity that would make even the most hardened of sailors cringe.

We were scurrying around the yard working while Carl stood with his arms crossed, glowering. 

“You miserable dipsticks!” he yelled. “You look like a bunch of effing buffoons running around in oversized clown shoes! I feel like I’m shepherding a bunch of effing cats!”

Juan was using a weed-eater to edge the lawn. As he frantically waved the head around, trying to work as quickly as possible, he tripped on the curb and fell against the house.

“Yeah, there you go, you effing jackass,” Carl said. “Tripping on your own shoelaces like an effing bozo. Why don’t you take your skis off before coming to work?”

Stan, one of the younger members of the crew, was kneeling next to the house, pulling weeds. As he stood up holding his bucket, he stepped into the wet planter, leaving a gargantuan boot print.

“You effing dumb ass!” Carl said. “What the hell is that? It looks like an effing Sasquatch footprint! Maybe we should take an effing plaster cast of it and send it to Scientific American!” 

Stan looked down. “Sorry, Boss.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Carl said. “Just quit tromping around like an effing Bigfoot in your effing clodhoppers.”

Just then, the front door to the house opened and slammed, and an older woman appeared on the porch, her hands planted on her hips. 

“Young man!” she said, glowering at Carl. “I’ve been listening to your language for fifteen straight minutes! Don’t you know any other words besides the F-word?”

Carl stared at her, his mouth hanging open.

“Sure he does, ma’am,” I said. “He’s been on a roll. He knows the A-word, the B-word, and the C-word.”

Carl spun toward me. “Why, you little —” He yelled a choice phrase at me.

I smiled. “That one started with an M, but I think it counts as a variation of the F-word.” 

Author: Allen

I’m a humorist and fiction writer, as well as the author of two books. One is a collection of humor, and one is a collection of short stories. Both books are available on Amazon. I always wanted to write a comic strip, but I can’t draw. Not even a stick-person. So that’s why “The Lawn-Cutting Crew” is a comic strip without drawings. I hope you enjoy!

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