Tori, I hardly knew ya

In a cloud of white smoke and dripping, syrup-thick oil my mower - my baby - died today.

Three months to the day since her lovely box slid onto my patio, Tori the lawn mower decided she didn't like the oil I threw down her gullet. She wouldn't swallow the juice, instead she let it smoke out her muffler ass and fill up the air filter like a hammered prom date after too many homemade kamikazes. I worked with her for 10 minutes, but after realizing the white smoke pouring out the muffler, not to mention the steady black drip from an engine gasket were not good signs, I shut her down. I made a trek over to the auto store for the right oil, changed out the shit that gave my baby the soupy, chunky runs and poured what I thought would coat her tummy.

Instead her heart stopped.

I gave her mouth- to-oil spout recesitation. No help. I spun her blade, and all she did was spit out more shit oil. There was no mistaking, my Tori was dying.

I called Tori's mom, hoping the old lady could direct me where to go to get my baby fixed, or at least find someone t0 get her her last rites. Tori's mom said to call amom-and-pop joint to fix her up. But I know the truth. These joints, in the middle of drug-den alleys, are just fronts for lawn mower-part prostitution rings. I take her there, and she'll come back jaded, beaten, used and abused. Her O-rings will be twice the normal size, and she'll come back with rust and other metal-eating diseases.

In the meantime, the chick couldn't pick a better time to leave me high and dry. Tonight's irrigation night - irrigation is a fancy word meaning get your ass up at 2 in the morning because the irrigation company says so (and we all jump when those blowhard water boys tell us to). We, as the customers, do all the work, too. Go outside, no matter the weather (too bad it's a thunder storm schmucko homeowner, dodge the bolts and open your irrigation port. If you get fried, well, too bad, I guess it sucks to be you), and turn the dial to flood the acre of weeds.

Since the flood comes tonight, my only chance to get the weeds to a manegeable height was this afternoon. I did some prework yesterday, raking pine cones to clear Tori's path, and changing her oil - the machine equivalent to a water-powered enima. The book said to feed my lady 30-weight oil, and all I had was 10w-30 oil. I thought, really, how thick can this shit be? Will it clog the engine? No way, I thought, I'm not that unlucky.

I'm that unlucky.

Tori spewed out smoke like she was a tugboat hauling a steaming pile of rhino dung. I'd make a turn for the next lane of grass and be shrouded in enough smoke that neighbors would think I was David Copperfield about to turn the citrus trees into golden-egg laying geese. I finally decided the smoke was too much and shut my baby down, believing the oil I used yesterday was the problem - I mean, the shit was leaking out of every pore in her metal casing, that couldn't be good.

I bought new oil, changed out the old, diarrhea-inducing crap and figured that would be good. It wasn't, and now I'm up shit creek without a paddle.

I'm beginning to think I'm one of those guys not meant to own power tools. Between the mowers and weed whackers I've had, I could run a used parts store out of the back shed. Need a Homolite weed whacker gas tank or two? I got 'em. Want an old Ryobi straight-shaft line trimmer handle? Be my guess. Need a Honda mower spark plug and a clogged air filter? Pony up to the Melissa Compound, let's make a deal.

I'm in the market to buy a new weed whacker, and after next week's diagnosis, will likely be in the market for a new mower.

Maybe President Bush's illegal immigrant amnesty bill isn't such a bad idea now. At least I know I can find some cheap labor in the Home Depot parking lot. Maybe that's the better route than sinking my hard-earned $5 from the prison work camp into power tools that more than likely will kick me in the nuts and not apologize after leaving 'em black and blue.