There is a precise moment of existential dread when a gas-powered mower sputters, gasps, and dies mid-stride across the backyard, leaving a jagged, Mohawk-style strip of thick St. Augustine grass right down the middle of the property. You stand there holding the pull cord like a desperate fisherman hauling up an empty net, realizing the gas can in the shed was completely dry last time too.
You are left standing in ninety-degree humidity, covered in clippings and sweat, staring at an unfinished yard like a defeated general surveying a lost battlefield. Your neighbor across the way watches you from his shaded deck, sipping a cold drink while silently judging your fleet management skills.
