It may well be that Iíve reached the point of no return in grass cutting.

I mentioned that I had been cutting grass every single weekend, using the General, the little Snapper lawn mower I have affectionately named after that legendary figure of Native American history, Gen. George Armstrong Custer.

But last weekend I was out of town for the whole time, and believe me, one weekend has made a huge difference. Instead of the grass being up to my ankles in a week, itís about mid-calf. I got home Sunday and thought, "Well, it doesnít look too bad," but then my neighbors were kind enough to cut their grass to demonstrate to me that it did, in fact, look pretty bad.

I figured Iíd get to it this week, but of course it rained Monday and I had a city council meeting to cover Tuesday, so Iím hoping to get to it tonight. I have severe doubts.

The General might not be able to handle it. I mean, I think Iíll have to creep through it with freshly sharpened blades. In first gear, engine roaring, I might Ė might! Ė be able to cut it back, but I fear Iíll have to take more drastic measures.

So far, Iíve considered the following:

Ė Aerial spraying of herbicides.

Ė A flame-thrower

Ė Buffalo herds

None of which might even suffice. I feel like Iím in a jungle movie, and I keep expecting a stampeding herd of elephants to suddenly burst from the tall grass, or a flurry of blowgun darts tipped in poison shooting out from a tribe of witch-doctor-incited villagers. Or Bing Crosby and Bob Hope will wander through, in safari clothes and hats, time-warped through the decades, to film their latest movie, Road to Chitimacha. Or an outback Bushman will show up on my front door, trying to give me back a glass Coke bottle.

You get the idea.

There was also apparently a little storm last weekend while I was away, and it knocked a lot of limbs down in the yard, which of course I have to go pick up first, if I can find them in the tall grass. I think if I hooked my truck to them with a chain I might be able to pull them out and to the burn pile.

Iíve thought, maybe, I could climb the big oak tree in my back yard, and with a pair of binoculars look for smoke signals from my fellow Chitimachas:

"Message to Stouff, do you copy?"

"This is Stouff, ready for message"

"Do you need extraction?"

"No thank you, my teeth are quite healthy."

"No, we mean rescue."

"Oh. Sorry, the wind kinda scribbled that last puff."

But a pride of lions circling the tree below have trapped me, so the only thing I can do is use the vines that have grown up from the rainforest that used to be my yard just a week ago to swing my way back to the house, Tarzan-style. Iíd give a Tarzan yell on the way, but Iím afraid Carol Burnett might be napping and Iíd hate to disturb her.

Hey, you think this is funny, but this is serious. Itís like a runaway train, my grass is. Like a snowball rolling down a hillside. Like a startled herd of cattle. Nothing funny about it. Who knows what could be lurking in there as the General and I chomp our way through all that moist greenery? I wouldnít be surprised to find Egyptian mummies, ancient Mayan cities, a red 1958 Plymouth Fury named Christine and the Flying Dutchman, all in my front yard.

But weíll give it a try. Iíll gas the General up (today we use unleaded, back in 1876 we used corn mash whisky) and give it my best. I am glad that my neighbors cut their grass. Now I have freshly-mown borders on two sides, a bayou on another and the road on the last, so I wonít happily cut my way to Argentina or some place. I knew I shoulda taken that left turn at Albuquerque.