Fountain Commander

I scrambled up the ribbed coils of a green garden hose to claim the brass spray nozzle jutting out from the lawn. It was slick, cold, and entirely too narrow for my boots. Naturally, I hopped straight onto the rim. My gigantic forehead instantly swung my entire body thirty degrees off center. I wobbled wildly, arms clawing empty air. Why am I trying to balance an oversized head on a half-inch brass pipe? It makes zero tactical sense. But stepping down is for weaklings. I jammed my rigid rubber chin straight into the brass opening to lock myself in place. Now I am an official bronze garden ornament, and I refuse to budge.