Our Sprinklers Were Installed By Sadists

Seriously. Take a gander.

The Branbury Apartments, aside from being an apparent magnet for rapists, has also hired evil, wet-sock-loving sprinkler installers. What did they pay these people to do exactly?  Last time I checked, concrete sidewalks did not need watering. But hey, perhaps times have changed.

To their credit, they were creative in their devilry. The sprinklers only come on at night. That is the worst kind of diablerie because it is freezing cold at night. At least little children would glory in running through the streams of water during the hot day. These people must have been hell-bent on spreading their malign influence on all who choose to keep hours that are different from a third grader.

There is no sound that strikes more terror into my heart than hearing the sporadic popping and hissing of a lumbering and spiteful midnight sprinkler program coming to life. It engenders a panicked cry of, "RUUUUN!!!" like some third rate action-adventure movie. The sprinkler heads rise slowly from the grass, hissing all the while like plastic snakes before spraying their cold venom on any innocent bystanders. If you are unfortunate enough to arrive after they are in full cycle, an impenetrable obstacle course awaits. Shooting scatter-patterns of death, each sprinkler head seems like it is manned by the last Nazi gunner at Normandy. Last night they had me bobbing and weaving like some frantic, novice boxer.

But I braved the crossfire. A mad courage and longing for home possessed me. I performed spin moves that would make Adrian Peterson blush. I deftly avoided each homicidal stream only to get caught by an unforeseen pernicious trap.

It has been called many things.

I call it the puddle of sullied hopes.

You see, not only are the sprinkler men evil, they are sly and smart. They outwitted me. I am defeated. They must have broken the regulators and extended the cycles in such a way that it causes excess water flow. The water slowly builds to create a mini Lake Michigan every night in the middle of our lawn. The grass can't take it. And there the water rests. Luring the lone traveler before splashing in and seeping to the toes. In an instant your feet are sopping. In an instant you flash back to the last time your mother held you, and you wish that you had held on a second longer.

Beware the Branbury sprinklers. But if pass through you must, abandon all hope. And bring extra socks.

[Keep following, Ris does.]