Marco Polo was an Italian lawn mower salesman with a fear of grass. Every time he tried to cut somebody's lawn the sight of the stuff would cause him to scream at the top of his voice and violently throw up all over the homeowner. As you can expect, he didn't get a lot of work.
To overcome his problem Marco had tried just about everything. He had tried picturing the grass in its underpants, but this had only added to his troubles. Now the giant demonic blade of grass chasing him in his nightmares every night was wearing a pair of semen-encrusted Y-fronts. He had tried taking a deep breath and counting to a hundred every time he approached a lawn, but not being the sharpest tool in the box, he kept forgetting to breathe out once he had started counting and kept passing out. His customer would then inevitably find him sprawled unconcious on the job, and assuming Marco was just being lazy, take him down to the basement for a Pulp Fiction style employment review. Marco was at his wits end. He was fast running out of money, and the lesions around his ass crack were becoming steadily more infected. He didn't know what to do.
At long last, Marco decided to seek professional help. He hoped that maybe they could solve his dilemna, or at the very least send him to a mental institute where he could get all the free food and morpheine he ever wanted. Maybe it was the excrement-covered clothes or the lost look in his eye, or perhaps the fact he was holding them at gun point, but when he told the nurses the nature of his problem they quickly put their best man on the job. Clutching his keyboard betwixt his teeth and wearing a jacket made of pure teflon, the one man that could hope to help Marco rose into sight. Enigmaticly pulling back up his trousers as he strode out of the disabled toilet, Marco knew then that everything was going to work out for the best.
"Hello, you must be Marco." said the man, stretching out a hand in greeting. "Im Doctor Washing Machine. I have just reviewed your case, and with some medicine and my careful expertise you are soon going to be fine again Mr. Polo. Just fine."
Marco unloaded his gun into the doctor's forehead.
Turning to the horrified receptionists he shrugged as if to apologize for his clumsiness. Unfortunately what Marco had been taught was a shrug in fact turned out to be a flying jump kick to the face, and several broken jaws later he was escorted out of the building. This is just great thought Marco, he had ruined any chance he might have had with the babes in the hospital waiting room, he was probably wanted for murder, and he was still no closer to solving his grass dilemna.
Marco could see no way out of it. His arms were too short and hook-like from years of uranium addiction to perform ameteur self-brain surgery, and becoming an online lawnmower salesman could involve using the internet for something other porn, this Marco would not do.
kill all grass lawn order Up until he invented the polo and got minted.