Lawnmower Nation
1000 days after October 7, we have much to be grateful for.
“To a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” — Mark Twain.
“To a nation with a lawnmower, everything looks like long grass.” — The Dejargonizer.
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“You're a country of nine million people. You can't just kill your way out of solving every single national security problem that you have.” —J.D. Vance, US Vice President.
“You bunch of mother-fucking rats, crawling out your sewer. Mark my words: there will be no mercy. Who do you think you are, yelling Free Palestine? I spit on you, sons of Amalek.” — Stilla and Ness, singers.
ON THE THOUSANDTH DAY of the October 7 Front War, which is not over, it is time for end-of-school-year ceremonies.
School year 2025-2026 (Hebrew year 5786) started with a bang. Then it went bang bang. Even by our ~6,000 year standard, it’s been a year. Way worse than 2024-2025, which wasn’t a great year. 2023-2024 is firmly in #3 spot. It’s not first place, that goes to AD 70 which started this whole thing. It’s not Silver [1939-1945 hands down]. School Year 2023-2024 makes the Haven’t We Suffered Enough Podium, with a respectable Bronze.
Every ceremony is more or less the same. A machine. A time machine. A ticking bomb time machine. Kids hold flags, march to mytho-martial songs (My Golani!).
Then they take turns reading heartfelt boilerplate AI-generated declarations of thanks to their teachers. Blessed are the Teachers. They really should inherit the Earth. But they won’t. They’re miserable. There’s too few of them, they work like crazy, they get paid nothing. Because of this they are treated badly by people who trust them with their children. The logic is bulletproof.
Daughter #1 gets up on stage, takes microphone, thanks the Mayor, school principal, deputy principal, teaching staff, teacher assistants, special needs staff, maintenance staff, security staff, parent-teacher association leaders, just normal parents, and her graduating year. It takes a Shtetl.
“Thanks for all the memories and experiences. Wish us luck for the road ahead.” Simple. Proper. Factual. This has passed Legal. Aligned, approved, delivered. I have taught her well. Pokerface.
The Mayor bootstrides on stage like Patton, says he marched this same stage 50 years ago to the same music and the same flag. From there he jumped to the Paratroopers and landed on his enemies’ heads, and he’d do it again if he was called up, but he’d need to check with his chiropractor, shouldn’t be a problem. A Mom objects, why the martial songs? What’s the connection to enemy’s heads now? Aren’t there other songs? Can we give it a break?
Mayor: “Ma’am, my dear, some day we’ll beat our swords into lawnmowers, but today is not that day. That day will come, not today because today is already here; and it’s already tomorrow in Australia, so probably not tomorrow either; maybe 50 years from now, give or take, it’s only one day so it can be easy to miss.”
A Mom: “What does this have to do with the music? What are you even saying?”
Mayor: “My dearest, come, don’t lose hope. [Turns to children] Children, students, darlings, lend me your years. Don’t lose hope. Let’s stand now to sing our anthem, it’s called…The Hope!”
It’s hot. It’s early. I’m hangry. My mind wanders to what the Mayor said. “Turn our swords into lawnmowers.” That’s a startup. We could make lean, mean military-grade lawnmower machines and give them names like Duvdevan (Cherry) 8200 Elite Operator Series. Cuts even the toughest lawns, and keeps cutting and cutting and never stops. You’ll never have to replace it. Hell, you’ll never WANT to replace it!
For the really premium experience: The Merkava (Chariot) Diamond Jackal IVI Series, with autonomous baby dronemowers that shoot out the mothership and take the tops off hard-to-reach weeds. And for the toughest weeds that won’t move, the baby dronemowers can land on their heads and die them both together. Your kids will love it. You can pass it down to them!
Thank God for Our Lawnmower. God protect our lawnmower. We love our lawnmower. The world loves our lawnmowers. Can’t get enough of our dronemowers. Iron Domemowers. They’re expensive yes. They’re not everyone’s cup of Matcha. But they’re effective, offensive, very defensive. They get the job done, and keep getting the job done, because the job is never done. Not on the lawns in these parts. In these parts, we are the Barbarians at the Lawns.
For the grass, everything looks like a lawnmower. Nothing is ever uprooted. Not the grass, not the lawnmower. That’s not their job. The lawn’s job is to grow. The lawnmower’s job is to mow the lawn. So that it can be barbequed on. To take the dog for a walk on. To pick up its poo from.
If the lawnmower’s job was to uproot the lawn, we would call it a Lawnuprooter. But nobody makes and sells Lawnuprooters, at least not profitably.
“…Land of Zion, Jerusalem.” The Hope ends, the music stops. And now rush to Daughter #2’s ceremony.
Being a warparent puts things in disproportionate perspective. Lunchboxes need to be made. Bombs need to be dropped. Lunchboxes + bombs + children = disproportion. Lunchboxes often come back uneaten —which is very annoying— but at least they come back in one piece (perspective). Shame did you hear about the story with the dad whose son’s head was kept in an enemy ice cream freezer for a year? What school was he from? Disproportionate perspective.
Daughter #2 ceremony starts. Son #1's ceremony was last week. We’re raising a tough generation. They get on with it. From the moment they get up to when they pass out in bed, they’re on it. Gymnastics, mathematics, robotics, literature, massacres, milkshakes, YouTube Shorts, dishwashers and popcorn; watering the garden, growing roots, raising trees, pruning branches, mowing the lawn. We have so much to be grateful for.