Buggin' Me
WHAT IS WITH THE BUGS AROUND HERE?
The roaches back at the Vault were ENORMOUS! I hatd them PLENTY back then, I'm certainly not a fan of them now that they can KILL ME. WFT, science?
Codswroth and I took out some HOUSEFLIES that were thesize of myy TORSO. It took both of us and half a 10mm magazine to take them down. That's NOT a friggin' HOUSEFLY. I said as mcuh to Codsworth.
"I belive they are called 'bloatflies' in the vernacular, sir."
Bloatflies? BLOATFLIES?
I fell down and laughed for 15 minutes.
Right there on Max Johnson's front lawn, WHEEZING at the carapace of a disgusting 3‑foot housefly.
I didn't know a robot could look awkward, but Codsworth did not disappoint. He just hovered nearby, ocassionally asked me if I wojuodn't be more comfortablt standing up, or if I wouldn't care for a glass of water or an aspirin. I just laughed harder.
Because this was Max's "prize-winning lawn" that he was SO PROUD OF, all dried up and full of weeds and now also a giant dead bug. OH NO! There goes the neighborhood!
He was the president of the HOA. He MADE UP the prize. Jesus.
Oh, Max. You made me a better person.
Not BECAUSE of you. You were a crotchety old asshole. I became a better person in SPITE of you.
I understood crotchety old *MILITARY* assholes. I'd grown up with one. Hell, I WAS one. But I had no idea how to deal with NEXT-DOOR assholes. You were a whole new breed of asshole I had to learn.
When you tried to offer me some "helpful" advice that MAYBE my lawn wasn't up to par with the rest of the block, and I'd be welcome to come by and ogle your wonderful, hand-trimmed lawn, I laughed at you and told you I'd rather be stuck on Mass Turnpike at 5:00 after eating an entire pan of bran muffins. You fumed and stalked away.
I felt bad. In your own crotchety, asshole way you were trying to give me some advice–namely that my lawn sucked and that you were going to fine me if I didn't do something about it. This was your interpretation of "help thy neighbor." Gee...thanks?
So I sucked up my pride and went to apologize. I brought you cookies (EXTRA BRAN, asshole). And I ogled your AMAZING lawn, and listend to your pre-scripted lecture on the best lawn care products.
Because, DESPITE IT ALL–despite that Nora was on mandatory bedrest from almost losing the baby, despite my arm still being in a sling from the surgery, despite that I hadn't slept a full night in over 2 years, and despite that every one of you MOTHERFUCKERS KNEW ALL THIS, because we had become the favorite gossip of the neighborhood, it was STILL not worth you being pissed off at me for the resst of forever because my lawn wasn't less than 2 inches high and the perfect shade of green.
Which is why we got Codsworth in the first place. To help us because we could barely help ourselves.
The Army taught me how to make war with our most dangerous enemies. But you, Max, taught me how to make peace with my everyday ones. You cantankerous, self-righteous prick.
So thanks, Max. I got 99 problems right now and a lawn ain't one. But because of you, I still have one friend left in the world.
