The catchphrase of a new anti-drug commercial.
Transcript as follows:

A teenage boy is walking by an alley in an obvious "wrong side of the tracks" part of town. A group of tough guys come over to him.

Tough Guy #1: Hey man, how's it goin, hey, you wanna smoke some weed?
TG#2: Yeah, yeah, it's real good stuff.
Our Hero: Ah, no thank you, I.. uhh...
TG#3: What's the matter, man, you scared?
(Guys all start making chicken noises at him, and one of them starts pushing him, until he runs away sobbing.)

Cut to: Our Hero's house, he's running up the front walk, and into the door.

Voice over: Sometimes, the best advice on drugs come from your parents.

Cut to: Inside of house, dad sitting in rocking chair, smoking a pipe. OH runs in, and explains the events that transpired.

Our Hero's Father: Hmm.. well son, next time one of those tough kids asks you to smoke pot, tell them "MY GRASS IS FOR MOWING". (nods)

Our Hero: (smiles)(runs back outside)

Cut to: same alley, OH comes running up to the group of guys, stops right in front of them, plants his feet, and says:

OH: My grass is for MOWING!

Cut to: across the street, OH being chased by irate group of tough guys.

Cut to: black screen, with SFX of scuffle taking place.

Voice Over: Talk to your kids about drugs. They might even help other teens.

Cut back to one tough guy holding Our Hero's arms as another punches him in the chest repeatedly. Fade to black screen with the words "Campaign for a Drug-Free America".

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Warning: Nodeshell Challenge/Rescue

It's funny now thinking back over several dozen hundredtokes that there was a time when I could be cornered by large BURLY tokepushers hanging out by the gate to my secondary education institution and think

my grass is for MOWING

or cover my ears and hum CAN YOU TELL ME HOW TO GET there, loudly, as taught by sundry anti-drug classes over the young years. So that I would repel the forces of BAD DRUG PUSHERS with my bright kaleidoscopic squareness and preserve my tender moist & pliable brian cells to ensure maximum academic performance. This led to general consensus that I was a loser; in return I penned a scathing, COMPLEATLY TRUE riposte against the scourge of marijuana-heads and their ilk on my bedroom computer, with all the intentions of printing it tenfold and pasting it with surreptition about the august halls of my school.

Alas, I chickened. I chickened massive-like, and it was good; in an alternate universe-style time frame v.Cube does not chicken and is drowned to death in stall 3 of the upstairs gentlemen's lavat'ry. Prospective offspring rejoice.

The shrugging off of my lame technicolour dreamcoat began several months later; after a bright sunny afternoon of feeding seagulls the renowned Chapelure-avec-un-soupcon-de-Drano (chef's choice), we Three Young Ruffians, feeling particularly headstrong and mischievous decided to call a number dashed quickly and secretly on a scrap of Five Star binder paper for a twelve-second exchange of monosyllables;

"Yo".

"Sup."

"Nm U"

"Nm."

"Got some shit?"

"Ya."

"7?"

"Ya. 30 mins?"

"Cool."

"Later."

"L8er."

And the ensuing Hollywood-style drug deal was intense and very knerve-wracking with many modified Asian-car models zipping about at HIGH rates of speed befitting the high drama and seriousness of fifty dollars' legal tender being exchanged for goods and/or services. A small reeking ziploc baggie was all we had to show for five combined man-weeks of allowance receipt and we felt had.

The Team retired to a basement workshop to fashion & weld some high-perfomance inhalation apparati, and successfully melded such disparate items as: one (1) Bic easy-roller ballpoint pen (hollowed); one (1) empty bottle of Aquafina (ionized); 3 (three) square inches of ALCOA-brand tin foil, held together with eighteen inches of hockey tape. This truly was a sight to behold, a construction for the AGES.

A hasty repart into a sufficiently well-bushed part of the adjoining field facilitated a tribal circle-sit of narcotic bent. Under piercing bright moonlight and a panoply of stars We Three summoned the Green Dragon, young virgin lungs hacking crud and spittle into the great inky yonder. A compatriot grabs my arm with much distress and urgency and stares into my eyes, my soul, eyes wide and Red as the Devil's Dick. he channels Joyce and says

Hey man I just had like a fucking shitload of pot and and I'm still not stoned I don't think do you think I'm stoned i'm not stoned I know I'm not holy shit I cant believe it we spent like all that money for nothing they ripped us off i can't feel a thing what a waste of money i am so pissed off right now like holy shit what a drug deal gone wrong this was such a stupid waste of money I-

This was where a large clump of grass was forced into his mouth, a 'wholesome physick' for paranoia. Roughly concurrent to this there appeared a Large Ogre who filled my mouth with sand and cotton wads and disappeared tittering to himself all the while and left me and my compatriots in a desperate state of thirst; we consulted with good Pepper, Ph.D who prescribed us 500 ccs ea. of his "special medically-formulated Elixir for cure of dyspepsia, contumely and wycked Club Foot.", to be taken with food. We thanked the good doctor for his providential invention, laid back in the grass, and tripped right the fuck out.

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