Knock it off. I'm serious. I know we live in the woods--YOUR woods, I know--but really, there IS a limit. You sit there, all sunbathing and sassy, looking--and SOUNDING, come to think of it, nowhere NEAR as cute as the Geico Gecko, right in front of my driveway gate, and you don't BUDGE to get out of the way of the rapidly approaching, GIANT MOTOR VEHICLE. I swear, if I run over some of you one day, it will be a bad scene, not because I'll feel sad for you, but because the thought of squishing lizards, even tiny ones, is just...ICK.
And you don't get out of my way when I get out of the car to open the gate until I am milimeters away from STEPPING ON YOU. You DO realize that you're each only about an inch and a half long, right? And that your tails pop off? (Yes, they do! Right OFF! Go ask your momma.) What is UP with this foolhardy lizard-machismo? Are you guys all hanging out there every day, waiting for me to get home, setting up some bizarre game of lizard-chicken with each other? Seeing who can hold out the longest before the looming radial tire, or beneath the lowering foot, before skittering off, lickety-split, into the fallen leaves?
Oh, and about that? The lickety-split leaf-skittering? Stop that, too, because it CREEPS ME RIGHT THE HECK OUT. I don't know how many of you there are, but I can SEE at least half a dozen every day, and when you get in those leaves, it sounds like your numbers are LEGION, or that you might have some very large relatives in there. Really. Send an emissary with a list of demands; we'll work something out. Or one day I just might snap and never slow down at the gate--just lay the pedal to the floor and go crashing through it, taking all of you with me, while screaming something loud and primal, from the depths of the warrior spirit which I am certain is in me...somewhere. Probably right behind that part of my warrior spirit that makes me hide in the bathroom in the face of such dangers as, um...repairmen.
Either that, or I swear I'm sprinkling some 20-Mule-Team Borax out there. Try to penetrate THAT defense! I mean, unless you, like, go around or jump over it or something. Dangit. Palaver it is, then. Meet me up at the top, near the mailbox.