He undid his waistcoat.
He took off his shoes and knee-length socks. He was a peculiar
fellow. Full to the brim with idiosyncrasies, refreshing to all those
who knew him. He unbuttoned his floral shirt and allowed the cooling
breeze to breathe coolly over his supple chest. His abdominal hairs
thanked him for it. Chiming in, his homeostatic glands heaved a sigh
of immense relief. Right on, he thought. Time to get going.
The lawnmower thrummed
along in the way a metaphor might if it had been whimsically thrown
together by some poet-turned-prose-writer in order to cheaply
embellish a benign sequence of events. Thrum thrum thrum. Imagine me
reading this to you, in a husky, emotionless voice, devoid of
regional accent but plodding along with heavy diction and
unwaveringly dull intonation. Just like that. Plod plod plod.
Trisyllabic sentences thrill me. Just like lawnmowing / mowing the
lawn.
Atop his
thistle-guzzling, blandly alliterative throne, the man felt like a
god. He listened to its various churns and kthumps with blind glee.
The noises gave him an enormous sense of wellbeing, which welled up
inside him, thence effusing from his throat in spits, gargles and
other gross onomatopoeias.
Across the way, the
man's neighbour, Kevin McCloud, was mowing his lawn. How
serendipitous, thought the man. What a charming coincidence that
Kevin and I – two men, two gung-ho, strapping men, riding on a wave
of exuberant gusto – should be mowing our adjacent lawns
simultaneously. I'll wave, and he'll wave back, and we'll each of us
erupt into a momentary ecstasy. We'll break the mould and whack a big
two fingers up to the conservative establishment for instilling
within us a sense of guardedness and perpetual reservation. We'll
shake off the doleful glare of infinite negation cast onto us by the
paranoid and paranoia-inducing shells of former humans, once
shimmering with individual phosphorescence, now damned to
monochromatic insularity and choking restricti-- oh blast I've mown
right into the hedge.
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