heart of fertilizer

Corrigan, Sophia T and I were toiling in the soil on the sunshiny Sunday. Frequently the promoter of using mulch (since I am the weeder otherwise) I eyed the lawn of the neighboring apartment building. A shave was due and the nitrogen rich grass clippings would make our veggies happy.

When the short frenchman walked his dog back to the apartment gate, I called out, "Hello! What do you guys do with your lawn clippings?"

"What do I look like?" he snarled. "The janiteur?"

"Um, no, I just thought maybe, well I thought you looked informed about landscaping..."

He didn't even hold my gaze during my reply, just marched on.

Admittedly I had made a mistake, for I really thought he was the caretaker of the property. But his answer smelled worse than fancy cheese, and I wished I could retort to his needless rudeness in witty and fluent french.

All I could think of was "couers d'merde" which I hoped meant "heart of shit" but presumably a made-up insult would accomplish neither witty vengeance nor linguistic competence, and certainly not a useful reply like, "The landscaper mows on Saturdays, you might ask him."