Just then the neighbor's lawn mower rowed. You go to the attic window and look across the street. The neatest house on the block with its freshly painted white picket fence is having its manicured lawn trimmed again by its anal occupant. You can't help but notice how perfect and neat everything looks. Even Tom Conners looks neat and prim mowing the lawn. He's mowing the lawn in dress slacks, long-sleeve dress shirt and tie. You roll your eyes not a hair is out of place. It doesn't even look like the guy is sweating.
You look down at the slobbifier, and grin. You can't think of a better subject. Conners is just back from his stint in the military, and even fully clothed he looks pretty buff as he marches pushing the handmower across his yard.
"Tommy boy, you can stand with a little slobbifying," you say as you aim the device and fire.
There is a greenish-orange flash of light. Tom Conners stops abruptly in mid-stride. His tense body visibly relaxes. You watch him run his fingers through his hair mussing it up. Then he undoes his tie and collar. He resumes pushing the mower, but no longer in cadence.
You laugh it works, but Tommy boy is still too uptight. So you fire again only this time you hold down the trigger for nearly 30 seconds. Tommy is standing there drooling, and it looks like he's grown a five o'clock shadow. You grab a pair of binoculars for a better look. You blink, it isn't just Tommy it's his whole yard and house. The picket fence is no longer freshly painted. A half dozen pickets are broken or cock-eyed, and all of them are peeling. The manicured lawn is now an overgrown weed-patch, except for a twisting path of unevenly mowed grass.
Tommy rips of his tie and shirt. He drapes them over the fence. Then he peels off his wife-beater undershirt. Your eyes widen. You'd seen Tommy at the gym before and his chest and abs had been smooth. Either he used to wax and shave his body hair or the slobbifier did more than affect behavior. Tommy now had a really hairy torso both front and back. His belly relaxed and expanded as it was revealed destroying the six-pack abs that you had eyed jealously at the gym.
Loosening his belt a couple notches, Tommy lets the buckled strap stick out awkwardly from his pants not putting it back through the belt loop. The tops of his boxers are now exposed above his pants line. He adjusts his crotch by shoving his hand inside the front of his pants. Then he belches so loudly that you hear it across the street and in the attic. You laugh.
Tommy resumes erratically pushing the mower through the foot high grass. He makes it to the far fence, then pushes a snaky pattern through the grass for about another third of the yard. He stops, wipes his brow. His out of shape body is sweating like a pig. His hair is dark with sweat and is plastered to his head and face. The hairy body is slick with sweat too. It looks weird seeing Tommy all hairy and wet. You notice that you're popping a boner.
Tommy goes inside for a few minutes. When he returns, Tommy is drinking a beer straight out of the long-neck bottle. You've only ever seen him drink out of glasses or at the gym out his own personal water bottle. He never drank out the packaging directly. Then your eyes drop to his crotch. His fly is open and his white boxers are sticking out.
He looks around the overgrown half mown yard and grins. He leans on the mower and finishes his bottle of beer. Then he tosses it haphazardly into the yard. You notice that the yard now seems to be a litter magnet. The paper cup in the gutter two doors down has blown into the yard. A newspaper has scattered its crumpled sheets there too. A truck loaded with old tires hits a pothole in front of Tommy's house that wasn't there earlier, and three old tires bounce out and over the fence to find a home in the slob's yard.
You have to see the inside of Tommy's house now. You've been over there a few times and it was always too clean. Even the dustboards had shown as if freshly polished. Tommy had made you take off your shoes at the door, so as not to track dirt through his house. You set the slobbifier down and bolt out of the attic. You race across the street, just as Tommy who is sitting on the porch with another now empty bottle of beer in his hand starts to nod off. A big black fly has landed on his face and is walking across his closed eyelid.