Ever since my retirement last month from the sock factory, I've had a lot of extra time to spend around the yard. But the hours of pleasurable pruning I had planned to enjoy with my new cordless rechargeable Master Clipper have been cruelly withheld from me. Instead, my afternoons have been spent in an unending feud with those motherfucking robins that infest my yard. All my attempts to coexist with these creatures on my meticulously trimmed, lush suburban lawn have failed, leaving me with no choice but to exterminate them. Do you hear me, you lousy, cocksucking robins? This is war!

It was last week that I had withdrawn a hefty sum from my pension account and made haste to the Eastgate Plaza Lawn & Garden Place to pick out the finest riding mower known to man—the John Deere Lawn Rebel, featuring high-impact Euro-style wheels and nine-position fingertip height adjusters. I climbed right onto the patented Comfort Cushion(TM) seat and grabbed hold of the deluxe, seven-speed gear shift, and drove her right out of the store and down Grant Avenue toward home, waving to everyone I saw.

I had just mowed the lawn Sunday, but I saw a few spots around the old maple tree that could use some extra attention. I could've used my Weed Eater Featherlite 15-inch gas trimmer that Gertie got me for our anniversary, but I saw this outcropping close to the maple's trunk as a good test for my new John Deere.

I cleared the patch without suffering so much as a nick to the green paint on the Lawn Rebel's detachable blower. At that point I decided to go ahead and mow the whole lawn. I thought, why not enjoy myself?—I'm retired!

But I had gone no more than 20 feet when I noticed one of those no-good, motherfucking tweeters hopping in front of the path of my mower. I slammed on the brakes and brought the Lawn Rebel to a halt. That mower stopped on a dime, and lucky for that bird, too, because any lesser mower would've gone straight up its ass.

I got about one row done when I came to another goddamn chirping little shitball, just taking its gay old time sticking its fucking beak in the goddamn grass. I yelled, "Hey, get outta the way!" but then I realized it probably couldn't hear me over the motor, so I turned off the Lawn Rebel and yelled, "Hey, I'm mowin' the fucking lawn here, asshole!" Boy, was I steamed.

Finally, I climbed off the Comfort Cushion seat and shooed the thing away. I started the engine up again and continued, only to have the same thing happen to me 11 more times just in the front yard. Now, this wasn't the first run-in that I'd had with these fuckers. I'd put a new white canopy over the deck this year, which was completely stained with berries from the neighbor's yard. Besides that, the last time I went to fire up the gas grill at the start of lawn-barbecue season, I found a robin's nest on the warming rack.

I swear, next time I see a robin's nest, I'm taking the eggs and smashing them with a fucking baseball bat.

Anyway, it was dark by the time I was done mowing, what with having to stop every 10 feet. Around 10 p.m., Gertie came running out with my heart pills expecting to find me laid out in the culvert.

After accepting a quick iced tea, I sent Gertie back in—by God, I wasn't done yet. I went to the garage and got out my shiny red Pioneer Plus 16-inch Chainsaw with the Menard's sticker still on it and went straight for the mountain ash where those birds were known to meet. Limb by limb, I reduced that tree to a pole. I even got out my Black & Decker collapsible ladder to get all the way to the top, but when I got there I didn't find any of the sons of bitches.

Defeated, I climbed down the ladder, bellowing, "Tomorrow, my fine feathered foes, is another day!" into the night sky. Fucking birds! Christ!