Late Fall. The time of year when Mother Nature is at her cooziest. There’s a shit-ton of leaves everywhere, and many Americans just aren’t willing or able to go through the back-breaking rigamorale of raking and bagging that shit. On top of that, there may be special leaf-bag laws and special leaf-bag stamps, and special leaf-bag pickup days and special designated areas to cram your leaf-bags. It’s all very depressing. So you do a shitty job. Maybe you spread the leaves around a little. Maybe you classify several areas of your yard as new “compost” areas. Maybe you make exorbitant promises you’ll never keep to your shithead kids in exchange for them pretending to rake. You swear, by God, that next year you’ll just pay some fucking Mexicans to do it.
And well you should. Fucking Mexicans are awesome at it!
Forget about that “doing the jobs Americans won’t do” crap. If Mexicans sucked as much ass at leaf-removal as you do, they wouldn’t do it either. Nor is raking leaves perfectly suitable for Mexicans but somehow below you and your exalted station in life. Nothing is below you, gringo. It’s just that over the past 20 years or so, Mexicans have pioneered some breathtaking leaf-removal shit that you and your little rake and soft, ivory hands weren’t privy to. Make the fucking call.
Ok, so you’ve made the fucking call. Pull up a chair and don’t blink, motherfucker.
In the distance you hear a low rumble. You can see a cloud of dust rolling across the horizon. The rumble and dust quickly build to deafening and blinding proportions and the next thing you know, you’ve got the fucking caravan from Mad Max pulling into your drive. Dozens of little men in little hoodies and bad little mustaches are leaping off the still-moving machinery and fanning out across your yard like stim-packed storm troopers. Leaf-blowers howl. Leaf-vacuums whine. Leaf tarps are hoisted by mini leaf-cranes. You’ve never seen so many goddamn late-model riding mowers in all of your life. And then in a flash, it’s over. Shocked, you fork over your $120 in cash while surveying your now perfectly leaf-less lawn. The dust begins to settle. The last Mexican jumps onto the last truck and is gone before you can even perform a dopey wave. What would have taken you 14 hours and a marriage to accomplish has been completed in a hot Latin minute and a half.
Call it Capitalism, bitch. And don’t you dare putz around with your little rake ever again.
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