The Associated Pest

This Grass Needs To Go

By A Wedge of AstroTurf

Honestly, can there still be any question that AstroTurf has supplanted so-called “natural” grass as both the preeminent sports playing surface and the preferred adornment of residential lawns?

As a wedge of AstroTurf, I certainly know the answer to that. You, the public, know the answer to that. But certain shifty-eyed types, less than savory characters if you will, have been flapping their gums. Well I’m here to tell you, those partisan parties are full of more excrement than a silo stacked with pig shit. I think we all know who I’m talking about, so I won‘t name names. But for the record, I will reiterate my position.

First of all, I don’t require any sunlight, OR water. That’s right, I waste absolutely none of one of the most precious resources on the planet, unlike some H2O guzzling cock-gobblers who shall remain nameless. The real question here is, why does grass hate the environment? At least if the summer goes long on you, I won’t turn into a patchy, brown desert of shame that your neighbors will point and laugh at.

I look and feel just like grass, and a recent NFL study even says that I’m safer. Also, this so-called “natural” grass? Well, fine, if you call pesticides, fertilizers and god knows what kind of shiny chemical goo they spray it with to green it up for games “natural.” I don’t. I call that false advertising.

Bottom line: Time to take a backseat, you outmoded dinosaur. You are–quite literally–almost as old as dirt. I may have just got here…but I’m not going anywhere.

The Time For Turf Is Over

By A Patch of Real Grass

Been hearing a lot of shit talk by AstroTurf these days, and frankly I don’t care for none of it.

Fact is, the turf had it’s day in the sun, and now it needs to be led out behind the barn and put out of it’s freakish misery, Old Yeller-style. When baseball moved inside domes to avoid rain cancellations, I took it like a man. No sunlight means no grass, and I got that. But we’ve had retractable domes now for years! The time for turf is over.

I guess my biggest problem with the turf is that, it ain’t me. It’s fake, it smells rubbery, and it’s a fact that athletes prefer me. I was good enough for their parents, and I’m good enough for them. Besides, can you really picture Ted Williams or The Babe playing on that bouncy lime-green crap? It’s downright un-American. Is nothing sacred anymore? What’s next, we gonna change the recipe for apple pie? In this era of fake tits and fake biceps and fake erections, can at least the grass beneath your feet be real?

As for having a lawn full of AstroTurf–well, if you think the neighbors laughed at your brown patch, wait till they see that you’ve ruined a perfectly good lawn by laying down plastic garbage.

Real grasses do real things, and if anyone gots a problem with that, they can come talk to me. Ya’ll know where to find me–oh, oh that’s right, I’ll be growing naturally out of the earth, as God intended.

Cats don’t stick around as long as I have without learning a few tricks to handle the competition. Watch your motherfucking back, AstroTurf…

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