Gno Respect

Psssst. Hey, down here. When did it come to this? Just when did we reach the point in society where a person just walks past a gnome in need? In case you haven't noticed, that's my head laying there on the ground, and that's my springy neck sticking straight up into the air. Does this look comfortable to you?

I know, it's not a good look, but it wasn't always like this. For years I was taken care of, life was good for a gnome. Bushes were trimmed, the grass was cut, and the place was in order. Hey, at least I had a view. Every fall, I was cleaned before being stored away with the other lawn ornaments for the Winter. The years past and Mrs. Givens went away and never came back. That's when you showed up.

Now I sit out here, my clothes faded and my boots worn as I fight through the elements while holding this splinter ridden welcome sign in my hands. That's right, I held on to the sign. My head is on the ground, a spider lives inside my mouth and yet I still managed to hang on to the welcome sign. What does that tell you about me? It tells you that I have a job to do and I do it, which is more than I can say for you.

There's no yard gnome union, I'm afforded no benefits, and as you can clearly see, there is no respect. And yet I do my job with a smile on my face. But don't let this silly little face fool you, I will straight get medieval on your tail.

A little bit about me: My name's Larry and no, I don't like the snow. I was assembled in Mexico and brought here illegally in the back of a box truck with thousands of others. I fell in love on that truck, with a four inch ball of fire named Roberta. We made plans and dreamed of someday littering our own yard with little Larry's but it wasn't meant to be. The truck stopped, boxes were shipped, and I found myself on the shelf at a WalMart in Ardmore, Oklahoma, next to a lawn sprinkler. Yet I still hold the sign...

Welcome...who are we kidding anyway? You haven't had company over here in almost 6 months. Take a hint, even your mother hasn't stopped by. Who am I welcoming, the pizza guy? Not if you don't start tipping better bud. Trust me, you keep stiffing these guys on a tip and you're going to find some extra toppings on your pie. What you should be doing is asking them for a job application, you dolt.

And then there's the on the job hazard by way of that decrepit cat of yours. Look, I'm a six inch Gnome with a little bird attached to my hand, do you have any idea what kind of dangerous working conditions that stupid thing poses for me? Of course you don't, and you don't care.

Sometimes, when it's really cold out, I imagine the tables are turned and your pudgy arse is out here icing over while I sit on the warm couch inside that depressing house of yours watching Game of Thrones. In this little fantasy, I open the door, walk outside and kick your bearded head out into the street to see just how much you appreciate it. Afterwards I drink a few pints of Guinness and laugh as a car comes down the road to crush your cold plastic head. I like to call this little plan the Human Genome Project. What? I have a lot of time to myself.

You see, I have hopes and dreams. Not that you care, you can't even keep a garden. Here's a hint, try planting things in the sunlight, you twit. That one's on the house, just like you're impending foreclosure.

But seriously, who's to say I won't one day find Roberta, move to Hawaii, change clothes and plant my feet in the sand while I still have a few good years left. We can spend the rest of our magical little lives on the beach. Gnomes like beaches too you know. So as I--what was that, was that rain? Great. Just great.