[The WTR Report runs every Monday at around noon throughout the season]

I find lawn-related chores most disagreeable. Mowing and mulching and edging and such. They’re boring and burdensome and they lend themselves poorly to my three most cherished weekend necessities: slothfulness, instant gratification, and quasi-violence. They’re far from helpful in those departments, and I want no part of them. Except for one, that is. The one I just learned of on Saturday. I don’t hate this particular task at all. Quite the opposite, really. I call it The Chosen One. And it is this:

Blasting unwanted lawn debris into utter nothingness with a massive, jet-pack-inspired leaf blower.

But not just any kind of blower. Absolutely not. No, I speak of the kind of blower that generates 200 mph winds (!!!!!!!) and requires a harness belt to operate safely (!!!!!). This kind… and “Husqvarna” be thy name.  

It is — and this isn’t an exaggeration — nothing short of pure joy. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted in life.

My friend loaned me this wonderful death-cannon on Friday, and now, I fear, I must have my own. Because for some unknown reason, there’s a primal delight to be had in mercilessly blasting order & unclutteredness into those unsightly situations where disorder & rubbish once stood. To a strapping, quasi-lazy fellow such as myself, it’s as addictive as it is productive. And Saturday, I must say, was a most productive day. Productive and glorious.

I can’t explain it, really, other than saying it made me feel all-powerful and god-like. Whatever displeased my all-seeing eye was dealt with swifty and with powerful vengeance. Leftover leaves clinging to my evergreen bush!?!?!? NOT IN MY YARD, YOU BASTARDS!!!!! FEEL MY WRATH!!!!!!!!!!!

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And out they shot, like last fall’s confetti being blasted from a heavy artillery Howitzer. A dazzling sight to behold, really. And where they landed, I had no idea. My roof? My neighbor’s roof? Martinsville, Indiana perhaps? I don’t know. And I didn’t care. Because they weren’t where they once were, and the evergreen bush looked delightful. And quite happy. And that’s all that concerned me, frankly. I am a kind god, I reasoned. A kind god with more smiting to unleash. So it shall be. And on I went.

Why does my mulch look so aged and haggard???? I just put new mulch down LAST spring!!!!! NO!!! THIS IS BLASPHEMY, I SAY!!!!! CLEANSE THYSELF, MOTHERF–KER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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And with a quick pull of the trigger, the first 12 layers of mulch peeled up and disintegrated into some kind of harmless gaseous form, revealing a fresh bed of dark, moist, very-new-looking mulch. Hours and hours of otherwise back-breaking labor reduced to a few hurricane-force milliseconds. My powers are limitless, I thought. They shall not go to waste. And they didn’t.

On and on I went, imposing my will on anything not bolted down. Tree limbs … tennis balls … dog shit … peeled paint on the garage siding … squirrels … layers of sod … bird nests … White Castle wrappers … what have you. ALL of it blown into oblivion — or possibly surrounding properties. Either way, it was no longer cluttering MY yard, and that’s all that really mattered.

And with that, the Pagoda’s weekend recaps resume (with a 100% new title!!!). Of course, had there been an actual IndyCar race this weekend, we’d be discussing that right now. But there wasn’t. So we aren’t. And all is precisely as it seems. Wait … what?

See there? That doesn’t make sense. That is NOT what I typed in my head. Which is why I’m knocking off the rust and preparing for the start of the season next week, where this week’s level of ineptness will surely not stand. I’m getting it out my system, so to speak.  

Five Pagodas for that which was entirely awesome … negative-5 for that which was uncomfortably pathetic and/or Jack-Arute-ish. My call.

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March weather patterns — negative-3 Pagodas
It was delightful in Indianapolis on Saturday. Up to 57 degrees, in fact. Of course, not surprisingly, it snowed Sunday. And not that queer, quasi-snow dusting they get in Atlanta once every three years. No, this had some teeth. Which reiterates a very important point to us Midwesterners: March is an evil, crazed, bipolar bitch who will turn on you in a second. She is not to be trusted. Ever.

Pitt loses to Villanova, destroys my bracket — negative-5 Pagodas
I swear, whoever I pick to win the NCAA’s is essentially hit with the flesh-eating Haitian Death Curse. Really. It’s uncanny, and almost frightening. And it’s high time I started profiting off this supernatural consistency of mine.

Therefore, next year, I’m offering my services to those interested. For you see, I will fill out my picks as I’ve always done; I will try in earnest to put together a winning bracket. I will then post my predictions on a password-protected site. Then, for a nominal fee ($50), you’ll be able to see my choices, thus allowing you to pick THE DIRECT F–KING OPPOSITES OF WHOEVER I INFECT WITH THE HAITIAN SUPER-CURSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You can’t lose. You won’t lose.

Tiger — 4 predictable Pagodas
Just another **YAAAAWN** 72nd-hole birdie to win at Bay Hill. Boooooring.*

*”Boring,” in this instance, means insanely captivating and hardcore.

Chipotle (Gourmet Burritos & Tacos) — 2 Pagodas
I have a sworn allegiance to Qdoba, but this Chipotle place I visited Friday night is intriguing, and worth investigating further. Their M.O., I think, is to use roughly 1/1,000,000th of the grease that Qdoba uses … which is beneficial in the sense that you don’t feel like you’re internally hemorrhaging after the meal. So that’s good.

But I must ask: No queso?!?!?!?! REALLY?!?!? What gives, Chipotle?!?! Do TOO MANY people just adore queso for your liking???? Do TOO MANY people want to buy it??? I don’t get this.

This “no queso” thing is exceedingly bad, and possibly a deal breaker. Not sure.

If anyone can shed some light on the impending Qdoba/Chipotle Wars (which ARE forthcoming, I assure you), please do so.

Yet to receive my St. Petersburg itinerary from IndyCar — negative-1 Pagoda
I put in my official “Send me to the St. Pete Party Barge OR ELSE!!” request to IndyCar some time ago, but I’m afraid to report that I haven’t heard back. And time seems to be running out. CURSES!!!

But you can help, dear Pagoda dwellers. You can submit your most indignant emails to my boss, John Griffin. Or you can simply donate travel money directly to the site … funds that will be used to turn the Pagoda into a sea-faring, trackside bastion of live-blogging (and exceedingly drunk) badass-ism. Either one works fine by me.

(Although there’s the slight risk that your donations go toward a supercharged Husqvarna, the black-market model that’s powered by an F-18 Hornet engine. Keep that in mind.)