text: “When life gives you lemons-” Yes, I know the fucking phrase. So help me Christ don’t finish it or I’ll snap your legs off and use them to stir a bathtub filled with your remains. As you can plainly see, I am in fact squeezing lemons to make lemonade. But it’ll take a damn eternity to squeeze them all. Why do I have a mountain of 26,687 mother fucking lemons on my front lawn? Couldn’t say. Woke up and there they fucking were. Only thing I know for certain is nobody asked me before they dumped all these stupid, shitty lemons here. Because believe you me, I woulda said “no.” Not just “no” but an emphatic “hell fucking no.” “Hell fucking no, I don’t want this avalanche of bitter scrotums. You massive dick.” Beautiful day too, perfect for a BBQ. But of course, my grill’s buried under heaps of lemons so high, they block out the goddamn sun. And of course, aforementioned goddamn sun is quickly ripening all these sickening lemons into a rancid mush that every insect in the country is flocking to. Because apparently insects are huge fucking assholes. So yes, I’m squeezing these sons of bitches. I’m squeezing these little bastards as fast as I fucking can. I’m about 863 lemons in, but who’s counting? Me, that’s who. I’m a prisoner marking his sentence, yearning to be free of this plague of lemons. This pox of lemons. This ebola-outbreak-in-a-major-urban-area of lemons. Jesus, just looking at all those flaxen sphincters is making me wish I died of scurvy. You ever had lemon juice squirted in you eyes? How about 863 times? Goddamit! Make that 864. Sure it stings like a bastard but at least each eyeful of this acid piss momentarily distracts me from the fact that I now have carpal tunnel in both wrists. Lemon induced carpal tunnel. Try explaining that one to your insurance provider. Not that I can go to the doctor anyway. Too many lemons to squeeze. Also, a freaking metric-ton of lemons crushed my car. Only had three payments left on that piece of shit too. Oh, not only that but my daughter hates me now. She walked onto the lawn this morning with this little cardboard sign. Apparently she’d independently decided to set up a lemonade stand today, selling it for fifty cents a glass. Well, she took one look at me and this yellow cesspool and quickly realized I’d flooded the market, drastically depreciating lemonade prices all down the block. She instantly burst into tears. It’s hard not to feel like a fucking prick about that. Which is also what she called me before digging her severely dented bike out of a mound of lemons and screaming that she was running away from home. I have no doubt that this supply-side trauma will lead her down a path of hard drugs. Because she mentioned that as well. So feel free to have a sip of this lemon discharge. Or a gulp. Or an IV drip. Just get rid of as much of this never-ending citrus nightmare as you can. Please I beg you. I’m running out of receptacles. I’ve used all my jugs, cups, bowls and have now resorted to filling hats with this sour urine. Cause you see, I may be squeezing these lemons but they’ve squeezed far more out of me than I ever could have imagined. My blood, my sweat, my tears. My dignity, my self-respect, my zest for life. I’m now nothing more than an empty rind of a man, waiting to be mashed into oblivion. Also, before you lift that cowboy hat, I should mention, this lemonade’s pretty fucking tart. Could probably use some sugar if you have any. &#x200B; If you made it this far, thanks for reading.