About Martin’s Sod Farm -Jim Meirose

It came out in the investigation that the history of Sod Martin’s personal control of the Martin Sod farm after it was passed down to him, needed—phew—to be exposed, because, it was claimed by an in-law of the recently deceased Theodore T. Gainy, that the level of care with which Sod would run the business was influenced by Gainy, and, as a matter of fact, were it not for Ted Gainy, Sod may have sold the whole thing off after he inherited it because, he felt—it was not the business for him. As a matter of fact, it’s always been no secret that the young Sod was also very embarrassed by his unusual first name, which his parents were forced to give him by his grandfather, founder of the business. When Sod looked over the state of the farm upon taking over, with his mental state re his name as it was—to him, the Sod business seemed no good. It was primitive, and the work required to keep it going was to his young face overwhelming, so; he nearly sold off the whole thing—to be followed by swiftly changing his silly first name—to some pasty land rover, in favor of faking a hot’d career in creative scenerioting, which he’d got half-hipnoteized into thinking he loved it, by the school gang he was thriving o’er the dole of it from, several of the young shapliesnesses whomsides involved there, b-b-b-ut; ‘bout this time—is when he met Ted Gainy.  

Gainy’d closely flowed after the next future of the Martin Sod farm as he’d been previously and independently enthralled by a story he’d ‘ntered of a family in the pasifistic Nord-West, that ran an acres over more acres of a stupidly huge sod farm. The amount of money they claimed to rake daily yearly or monthly, well, yes; of course he knew the difference if you get a dollar a day versus dollar a year and/or the backfigured segmentations of a dollar a’ every segment of time’d twinned-intween—hoot—he got to Sod and told him the giant money that ‘gether they could grow up into and to Sod, well, wow ‘ow wo’—wow! The future amounts seemed to Sod nearly cosmetic in their earsplitting super-hugealities, so—he split the band widths waves metrically measure segments of that also, so—-o, and, with Gainy on the money side, he embraced the business, but. The whole thing as he saw at first was top-primitive shackelie, like but for the actual grass of the sod, which, is still pretty much the same God’s grass whether greened on a bumbleshacked ramblydowned stinker of a farm, or, a Taj Princess’ Mahalian looking peter’s God of a holy beautiful priceless—which word got defined to Sod in the sideroom off a Roman Catholicked holily cleansed daily meditation and once in a while a prayer space—the grass’ the same all same the all the same yes the the grass’ all the same. 

Hiccup! 

So! As Ted Gainy all told him, they’d chomp indie spike, up-pup! Geggsactley. Bu’ buh butt he cayme dunder t’ eart’ aall bumpy just knowing how much work thought and sweat it would take to perform an entire u’spruce spanning all acres of buildings land machinery rock-steadies and other required—goouse. But, Gainy said, Yup. Said—yup, yeh. 

In unison they said, Yup! 

They palled immediately how and why’s ‘not portent for this particular narrative to be believable sustained, but. Ted Gainy ‘stinctively snatched up the business side ‘n they got to work all teamie, first; Gainy preached first, Image is important, Sod. They will not buy Sod from a bedraggled starvational skinny-butt soul standing in a drizzle at the curb holding up a ripped off box top saying SOD FOR SALE in sloppy invisibly thin blunt number three pencil yo bonk ya gashta-be compupadded neat nice combed deodorized and properly medicined-up man ditch those cornstalks vintage transparently seated trousers be a firelippe’d roostercock of a sales generating buzz-man, trash those handydarned stockings, and, take it from me. I mean, gosti bang-slam-clash, uh; Sod, my man, you’re now running a farm with billions of plants planted; how, man; lessee time quick—ten blades of grass parrots per square centimeter signed contracts binding by law very binding one hundred thousand blades of grass per square meter many over centipede-meter funny funny one hundred trillion blades of grass, plus; total surface area of planet earth be yon quite Godlike number of 5.1 * 10^8 km2, Godlike qua Father qua qua Son qua qua qua Holy Ghost to some, Spirit to others qua qua depending on this and depending on that, see, My Son, this topic qua by no means be qu’ simply done deah’. Okay? 

Yes. 

Okay; then the firm name’s s’sential be snap crack und poppe—so what other lawnery oriented businesses s’name slam them trucksides big signs et loud-ads yelling as in this one case I dug, hear it; CORE AERATION FLIGHTPATH DEFINITION CERTIFIED CROPDUST NAVIGATION SPECIALISTS AND MOWERMEN. Then, t’nother actusentually hen woking a grassy smell of the custmummerian mind, with COMPLETE LAME CARE BROTHERS (LAME, LAWN—NO DIFFERENCE. WE DO IT ALL) n’ SUPER LAWNSEED ROTO-THROW HOMEOWNERS COMMUNE that kind makes ‘em leap Sod, trust ‘n fluncken ou’ of one lawnsmell cloud invotentation entering another passing fat strap of a BONNIE CHAINWOOD TREETOP SAWMEN the edge of the lot there no more saying GURDJIEFF AND SONS WAY-POTENT FERTILIZER DUMP AND THROW CORPORATION and RAISING THE CANE GARDEN and LARGE LOUD GARDEN TRACTORS and CHURN POWERSEEDERS and RAZE THAT SHED IMMEDIATELY MASS YARD CLEANUP and FENCE FIDO IN TODAY BECAUSE IT’S THE LAW LLC and CHEAP CRITTERS and BUNGEE THE PAL and WHOPPINGPUP RESCUE AND MANAGEMENT and READY MIX HEAVY SUBSTANCES and ELECTROPOWER WILDLIFE REGENERATORS PA and DOCTORS’ SLICE AND MASH WALK IN the walk winding out through the flat green lit crowdmob o’ seeming hayseedlike farmermen bump-knocked the door behind again, letting another large strawhatted coveralled farmer kind of guy but twice his size painfully flowing himself around the tiny gap of space remaining for movement in the booth saying this samething exactly; one packed mass of hayseed hatstraw crushed together in a mass of cheap landscaper-standard issue shirt cloth, et cetera, et cetera, studded here and there with veered-off nosetips bit back ear lobes pressed tight glaring eyes and just plain fleshspace giving quite painfully the last possible sentence able to be said from the highest boss reached through all iterations of the event, as yes yes yes dig that dog juice mama and I’ll throw you another hayseed hatstraw landscaper-standard issue shirt cloth since, and because but not to me mistcoustrutted that even the Earth is eternally falling sunward it’s a tightrope existing thank God f’ t’ Global Lawncare and Landscaping business I bet you didn’t know that eh—owner or past fired by any arm of the landscaping business, similar in stench to the Sod job we got,, think of it! Think of it, you landscaping magnate, you—the lot is not safe not HAMMERSTEIN PIANO WOOD RECYCLERS AND MULCHERS reading the trailersides passing you now BLOWER-RIPSOUNDING MOST HOLY ANNOYANCES CROP-ROARATION LLC my God get a name on you like that the work will pile in and smother us—we got to dodge quick, but, it will not overwrite your recall that when we BROUER’S BAND-AID COMPANY heard you hating this passage here, SUPERSTICKY FLYSHIT face, Yes no face, Sod, my man, her face both, no KILLING FIELDS TREE SURGEONS and MAKE IT LOUDER ALL-DEBRIS TWO-CYCLE LONGBLOWERS CLEAN KILL PEST-CIDER we love you CHAINSAW MASTERS faces and BLACKTOP DRIVEWAY CRAP-FILLER so SPIN THE BLADES OF YON MOWERHUBS; REPAIRMENT AND REPLACETION do I SCREAM PAST THE BACK FORTY ESCAPE SYSTEMS LLC SUPERMAN’S DEAD LONG LIVE SUPERMAN face no faces we faces GIRLBONNET FAIRYCRAFTERS no love faces their you faces no we do faces faces no faces back out NON-EVIL MULCHMASTERS NOT YOUR FATHER’S TOOTSMYNOODLE SYSTEMS RENTALS TUCK AND STOW ESQUIRE break BASTARD POLICEPERSON RENTALS NOT MY LEAK SORRYAGAIN SHINGLES AND SNAPPERS CORPORATION go Sod their DOWNPOURING GUTTERSLOPES AND BUCKETDRIPPING CHAIN SOLUTIONS faces contract CRUMBLEPUPPIES SERVICE STARS swinging THE TANGLEFOOT MAN-TRIBE light swinging CROSS THIS LINE I DARE YOU STICKYSTRIPPING CORPOR-NATION dark light dark now Chevrolet unlock’d by my own final FordTruck’s blast-bash, bosh, twenty nine point two percent of the planet is land. That means makes regard such a business in this may be profitable ‘cause; of this land about twenty percent is grass. This means the surface area of all grass areas combined is 5.1 * 10^8 km2 * 29.2% *20% = twenty-nine million km2. This amounts to. Blades = 10^11 blades of grass / km2 = 3*10^18 blades of grass. This is roughly four hundred eighteen million. Blades of grass per person. How to shack that how to shack that? Alive. So, what you think Sod? 

I—I don’t know. I mean— 

Come on, come on—what the heckle y’ jeck’ think Sod? We all know what we’re thinking. ‘cause we never leave our heads. Why did you lie so? 

Okay. The name should not change. MARTIN SOD FARM. There you go. Ping that bellrim, ah. MARTIN SOD FARM, ah. Sweet. Simple. And, it’s what everybody already knows. We got a banckle o’ Parkies in the fileboots ‘lready use us. Plus, if we change, it’ll cost a few hundred repainted ad-signs, and every file in our cabinets will require a time-consuming and utterly laborioius, Caligariational reboot. But, hey.  

But what? 

I am fired up, Sod said. Fired up, s-so—let’s go, Farouk. 

What’s that mean? 

Some king. Name of Farouk. Popped in. From back my head where school’s slow dissolving. F’om sum other place ya; got to learn the past of even though it will never touch you. 

Why? 

Why? 

Why? 

Okay? 

Okay, Sod.  

Good. 

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