The Leaf Blower’s Lament
The inventor of the leaf blower arrived in Hell with a faint hope that, perhaps, eternity wouldn’t be so bad. After all, wasn’t it just a little warmer? A bit more… lively?
But as he stood in the vast, sulphuric suburbia of the damned, the truth became clear. The sky was a permanent, sullen orange. The smell of overcooked barbecue mixed with the acrid sting of petrol fumes. And all around him, leaf blowers—thousands, millions of them—roared in an unholy symphony, each one wielded by a smirking demon in a polo shirt and cargo shorts.
A clipboard-wielding spectre in the uniform of a Homeowners’ Association materialised before him.
“Welcome to your eternal assignment,” the ghostly bureaucrat intoned. “Your task: to rake every leaf in this infernal cul-de-sac into neat little piles.”
The inventor blinked. “That’s it?”
“Oh, not quite.” The spectre grinned. “Once your piles are formed, our dedicated enforcement team will… assist.”
At that moment, a hurricane of gas-powered leaf blowers erupted. Leaves swirled in chaotic fury, blasting into his eyes, his mouth, his soul.
“But—that’s not how they’re supposed to be used!” he screamed over the deafening drone.
A demon wearing a ‘World’s #1 Dad’ apron leaned in. “Oh, I know,” he whispered. “It’s worse.”
As the leaves settled in his hair, his clothes, his very bones, the HOA spectre chuckled.
“Enjoy your Sunday mornings.”
And the blowers roared once more.
