toot sweet

I stepped into the shed.

If I had thought that the heat was sweltering outside, then inside that little eight by eight plywood box it was narry an exaggeration to call it an oven.

Alas, I should have checked in on my backyard storage sooner, but thankfully I was only almost too late. The gasoline for my lawnmower was stored in the back corner of the shed and inside one of those red plastic jerrycans. That warm summer dy had pressurized and inflated the jug from it’s proper form as a neat red rectangular vessel into a orb-like balloon puffed out on all six sides including the top and bottom, all of which looked fit to burst. 

The truth of it was that had the vessel ultimately exploded—either burst from pressure or combusted from heat—it would have either made a mess or a small fireball that destroyed the shed itself and done some serious damage—I didn’t know which and I didn’t care to find out, either.

It didn’t burst, but I’m sure only by virtue of a bit of luck on my part.

And worst of all, this result all but unnecessary because I had gone and sold my gasoline-powered lawnmower two years before and hadn’t bothered getting around to disposing of the gas along with it. 

What a shame, the neighbours would surely have thought while pondering the remnants of my new electric battery powered grass cutting machine all but incinerated to nothing by the inevitable fire.

Or maybe my imagination runs wild, sure, but I made sure to depressurize that jerrycan toot sweet and dispose of the veritable time bomb lurking inside.

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