I spent much of the weekend doing battle with the jungle that's grown up around my house in the last year. I have an ancient DR Field brush cutter that's not quite as old as my Electrolux vacuum, but it's still old. DRs are those mowers where in the advertisements someone rolls through what looks like an old growth forest and leaves behind something that looks like a golf course. Well, no one would mistake my yard for a golf course, but that's OK. The brush is gone and that was the purpose of the Weed Wacker Massacre. I used to fight forest fires with the U.S. Forest Service, so I can't claim ignorance about what precautions a responsible home owner should take to reduce their chances of losing a home in a fire.
Now if I could only protect my home from space junk. There are several un-funded satellites out there that have refrigerator-size pieces of titanium in them that won't burn up on reentry, and I just know that one of them is going to come crashing through the skylight above my bed. I'm not sure how I know this, but I know this is how I'm going to die. I see it clearly. I'm going to be snuggled between my cat and dog gazing dreamily at the stars when a satellite hurtles toward us. Obviously, the most dangerous place for me is my bed. One advantage of this knowledge is that I don't worry worry about cancer, car accidents and other things that might kill you. Be safe.
McHumor's Forest Cartoons
McHumor's Space Cartoons
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