I think his name was actually Doug. But, yeah, the Good Woodchip Fairy is forever how Doug shall be known in the mythos of Fencebroke. For he rattled in like a diesel-powered sprite from nowhere on an otherwise humdrum afternoon, summoned by nothing more than an ancient ocarina and an e-mail. At the reins of his magical hydraulic truck, he beep-beep-beeped back into the driveway and unleashed a blessed tide of shredded pine and cedar to quell the infernal lawn I have neither the wits nor will to fight any longer.
|Hey, this stuff smells pretty good, too. All hail Doug!|
Whether or not Doug approves of his role in the local pantheon I cannot say, though he seemed, at heart, a good-natured imp. A more pressing question posed by his visitation is the matter of his opposite. Is there, to balance the gardening universe yin-yanglike—a Bad Woodchip Fairy out there somewhere? Cackling over a fire-belching woodchipper in search of … well, I can't say for certain to what ends an evil Doug would employ such arbitrary malevolence, but whatever it is, I bet it's chilling.
Just in case, we shall erect a small shrine to Doug, the Good Woodchip Fairy, consisting of an upright pickle fork—his preferred tool for disseminating the medium of his enchantment—draped in Carhartt garb. To this effigy, we will place small offerings of pine needles and Monster energy drinks in order to stay in his favor and discourage the frightening prospect of his Other.
It is a small price to pay. Especially since this sea of woodchips was, inexplicably, free of charge.