Scarecrow Season is upon us. Of course I'm not ready. It always sneaks up on me. Next thing I know those charming scarecrows that have until now stood in our corn fields, silent and inert, will have come to life and be pounding on my door looking for paying work. Never fails. And it's not cute. You'd think it'd be neat. No. (shakes head)

They smell. They have an odor like rain and ripe melons. Some of them are infested with field mice or soil lobsters. They're always apologizing about their stuffing falling out of their sleeve into your cup. And they all got a story. Oh god.

“I wasn't always like this. There was an evil wizard. There was a witch. I'll do anything to end this curse.”

Bullshit. They won't do shit. They can't hold a hammer cause they don't got a wrist. They can't make a stew cause they got no nose. Can't even stand up straight cause they ain't got a pole.

It never ends.

I made the mistake-five years ago I made the mistake of hiring a few of them to do a dance for me and some guests. Put on a little show. Sing about being lonely and scaring birds.

Nothing. They didn't even show up. They stole my garden hose and left me to entertain with surgery stories.

Never again.

Luckily the three scarecrows sleeping out on the deck are just figments of my imagination and can't get near the guns.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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