I love a well-manicured lawn more than most things. If I were to compile a list of things I loved, a well-manicured lawn would be very close to the top — sandwiched between the likes of music, It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, the 2008 Arizona Diamondbacks, myself, neon colors and so on.

Earth’s emerald-green, pantyless pubic region; a beautiful taste of forbidden fruit, such a lawn demands my respect and calls out to me in sun-soaked song. Its short, freshly-trimmed blades glistening in the summer heat, gently waving in the gentle breeze — as if posing for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue or a Creed music video. Its perfection so unmatched in matters of perfection, it quietly makes its way into paintings and photographs and our perceptions of idealistic-utopian beauty.

I want to marry such a lawn — to frolic with it, and eat ice cream sundaes and go to a drive-in movie. (Maybe afterwards we could neck in the backseat of my car at Lookout Point.) And every time I see this lawn — this ravishing slew of bugs and dirt and seeds and grass and dogshit — every time I see it, a pang of lust drives its lusty spear straight through my lusting body, reminding me that no girl will ever be as unequivocally amazing as a fucking lawn.