Blow that repugnance elsewhere
I believe the Man has lost his mind.
After his failed campaign against the yard last week, his behavioral patterns shifted alarmingly toward the absurd. First, he hauled startling quantities of lumber into the house, placing these materials in all manner of inconvenient locations. Then he launched into some bizarre (and quite noisy) construction project that consumed the better part of the day, and all the while he muttered many of the same oaths at the lumber which he had previously directed at the hardy external greenery.
When finished, it appeared that the Man had constructed a large and ominously elaborate coffin, which he stood on end and leaned against a wall in the fortress's main chamber. When the Woman returned that evening, she stared at this monolithic contraption with an uneasy mix of horror and admiration. The two of them spent the evening regarding this monstrosity with unnerving fascination, and Fabio repeatedly attempted to lie down inside the mystery box. Yes, he is just that stupid.
Ever since that strange day, for nigh on a week, the Man has spent his days seated before the giant coffin, staring into its recesses and letting his fingers dance upon his small silent piano, which he relocated from the glass platform onto a rolling shelf within the bowels of the monolith. Tic-tic-tic-tic-tic... for hours on end.
So obsessed is the Man with his creation that he no longer leaves the fortress during the daylight hours, as has been his custom for many ages — since before the Woman, anyway. He now lingers about the domicile throughout the day, even as the Woman continues to faithfully honor the tradition of vacating the premises during the breakfast-dinner interim. And he sits before his wooden behemoth and tic-tic-tics away, apparently now wholly in the thrall of some twisted compulsion.
And that is not even the weird part of this tale. For the Man has added an even uglier ritual to his daily mania. In the early evenings, with a nauseating air of contentment and satisfaction, he retires to the rear deck, where he sucks upon what I can only describe as a smoldering turd.
It has occurred to me this may in fact be a sad attempt to emulate my own affinity for fine cigars, except that the Man inexplicably sets his own brown-leafrolls afire, thus polluting the atmosphere with a putrid lingering haze. To make matters worse, he engages in this act of queasification during the waning hours of the day, the very time when I like to enjoy a brief pre-supper siesta in the cool grass. Now, my quiet meditation is fouled by the Man's puffs of disgusting pungence — which, no doubt, are rotting the timbers of his already-rickety psyche even further.
And just in time for summer. Oh joy.
After his failed campaign against the yard last week, his behavioral patterns shifted alarmingly toward the absurd. First, he hauled startling quantities of lumber into the house, placing these materials in all manner of inconvenient locations. Then he launched into some bizarre (and quite noisy) construction project that consumed the better part of the day, and all the while he muttered many of the same oaths at the lumber which he had previously directed at the hardy external greenery.
When finished, it appeared that the Man had constructed a large and ominously elaborate coffin, which he stood on end and leaned against a wall in the fortress's main chamber. When the Woman returned that evening, she stared at this monolithic contraption with an uneasy mix of horror and admiration. The two of them spent the evening regarding this monstrosity with unnerving fascination, and Fabio repeatedly attempted to lie down inside the mystery box. Yes, he is just that stupid.
Ever since that strange day, for nigh on a week, the Man has spent his days seated before the giant coffin, staring into its recesses and letting his fingers dance upon his small silent piano, which he relocated from the glass platform onto a rolling shelf within the bowels of the monolith. Tic-tic-tic-tic-tic... for hours on end.
So obsessed is the Man with his creation that he no longer leaves the fortress during the daylight hours, as has been his custom for many ages — since before the Woman, anyway. He now lingers about the domicile throughout the day, even as the Woman continues to faithfully honor the tradition of vacating the premises during the breakfast-dinner interim. And he sits before his wooden behemoth and tic-tic-tics away, apparently now wholly in the thrall of some twisted compulsion.
And that is not even the weird part of this tale. For the Man has added an even uglier ritual to his daily mania. In the early evenings, with a nauseating air of contentment and satisfaction, he retires to the rear deck, where he sucks upon what I can only describe as a smoldering turd.
It has occurred to me this may in fact be a sad attempt to emulate my own affinity for fine cigars, except that the Man inexplicably sets his own brown-leafrolls afire, thus polluting the atmosphere with a putrid lingering haze. To make matters worse, he engages in this act of queasification during the waning hours of the day, the very time when I like to enjoy a brief pre-supper siesta in the cool grass. Now, my quiet meditation is fouled by the Man's puffs of disgusting pungence — which, no doubt, are rotting the timbers of his already-rickety psyche even further.
And just in time for summer. Oh joy.
so sayeth Shmool on Sunday, May 14, 2006
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