so yesterday we are out in the back yard having a dandy time playing. we are throwing the ball around, spinning, and things like that. there is a lull in the activity for just a second (i knew i should not have stopped spinning!) and mom looks over at the grass. "wow, the grass is getting tall! i should weedeat."
she goes and plugs in the weedeater, and i am sad and scared. i just hate that thing. i guess partially because it is so noisy and awful, and partly because it destroys everything in its path. somehow, the combination of those two things is a little too stressful for me. i quickly run to the door and get dad to let me inside where i can play on the floor safely with him.
mom comes in a few minutes later with a bloody, bruised foot. she hobbles in and says to me, "sam, you must never, ever weedeat in flipflops!" this works out for me, because for one, i do not wear flipflops. for another, i hope to never ever touch the big scary noisy awful grass-destroying machine. she says it is her own fault for not paying attention, but i am not so sure. i knew i should not trust that thing. it is out to eat feet!