I've given in. I've joined up. I've finally taken responsibility for my life. I've started a business. I'm my own man now. Yes sir. Alright. Yeah. Yes. Yes. Ohhhhh. Yes.

For a very modest fee, I will sit on your front porch and dip your lawn statuary into different colored pots of paint, then leave them to dry.

It's booming. It's all word of mouth. I never knew what I was good at. Never knew my place. Now I do. I'm a citizen again.

I sit there with gloved hand, carefully dipping your gnomes and whistling frog ornaments into gray paint. Or yellow. Some people have a preference. That's fine.

And I always dip them under face first. I'll hold a rabbit ornament, I'll hold its head under the paint and count: One-Agatha Christie, Two-Agatha Christie, Three-Agatha Christie…all the way to ten. Then up, rotate, and back in for more.

And oh the children watch. From indoors. I insist they be taken inside first. And they gather at the picture window and monitor everything I do. It's better than Christmas. “This could be your life someday,” I tell them by holding up a sign, “You could have a purpose.” And oh, how they smile and clap or get real quiet.

They watch as I dip squirrel statue after squirrel statue into stinking army green paint and then lay them atop each other in a shallow gave dug by their parents.

And I have success because I wanted it. I wanted to do this. This is what I, of sound mind and body, chose to spend my days doing. Drowning inanimate yard totems in paint.

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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