Real or Imagined After Work Lamentation
You get home after a long day of pulling that lever and greasing the press and bending to the gusts of bloviating exhaust from yer damn cow-orkers and all ya really wanna do is unspool outta yer pants, you know? So, there I am, empty house--the kinda silence you'd never hear in the changing room of a Fat and Wide Store--an empty house all to my soon-to-be-Easy-Pants-self (these Pants of Ease were NOT purchased at the aforementioned Oinklet Emporium). There ain't a lick of nothin' smeared on the front stoop when I pull in...oh...did I tell you the mailman's got a Molten Food Items Agenda on me? I'm not 100% sure where this Velveeta and such Vendetta originates from (I swear I've never slurred the man's Crockpot...why would a man do that to another fellow...well...maybe to that Smalley dude...he once unloaded the contents of his bowels in one that was still plugged in...he called it Art)...but it could--it COULD have something to do with my off-the-cuff comment to him at the Mall (when I ran into him) that his ankles looked A LOT like a couple of sheared elephantitis suffering baby Pomeranians shoved into mud drenched flip flops. How was I to know it was a Family Tradition...or mutation...or something? How's he doing all that walking 'round on pegs like that? You'd think the stress on 'em would snap 'em like putting saltines under a quadriplegic Romanian (wait...is that a malaprop?). Either way...or any which way...I've been coming home to all sorts of heated and fluidified foodstuffs painted all over my steps...but not this one day. That's gotta mean something. A good omen? Or the calm before the Mailman's next Fondue Storm?
T
You get home after a long day of pulling that lever and greasing the press and bending to the gusts of bloviating exhaust from yer damn cow-orkers and all ya really wanna do is unspool outta yer pants, you know? So, there I am, empty house--the kinda silence you'd never hear in the changing room of a Fat and Wide Store--an empty house all to my soon-to-be-Easy-Pants-self (these Pants of Ease were NOT purchased at the aforementioned Oinklet Emporium). There ain't a lick of nothin' smeared on the front stoop when I pull in...oh...did I tell you the mailman's got a Molten Food Items Agenda on me? I'm not 100% sure where this Velveeta and such Vendetta originates from (I swear I've never slurred the man's Crockpot...why would a man do that to another fellow...well...maybe to that Smalley dude...he once unloaded the contents of his bowels in one that was still plugged in...he called it Art)...but it could--it COULD have something to do with my off-the-cuff comment to him at the Mall (when I ran into him) that his ankles looked A LOT like a couple of sheared elephantitis suffering baby Pomeranians shoved into mud drenched flip flops. How was I to know it was a Family Tradition...or mutation...or something? How's he doing all that walking 'round on pegs like that? You'd think the stress on 'em would snap 'em like putting saltines under a quadriplegic Romanian (wait...is that a malaprop?). Either way...or any which way...I've been coming home to all sorts of heated and fluidified foodstuffs painted all over my steps...but not this one day. That's gotta mean something. A good omen? Or the calm before the Mailman's next Fondue Storm?
T
posted by Tony at 5:16 PM
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