sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

The saying that goes something along the lines of "a walk in the park," and is generally used to refer to something that might be considered relatively easy to perform (unless the person using it tends to get his or her sayings mixed up, which is highly unlikely, though possible, even in this case, and I, myself, may have been known to commit the error from time to time, though with good enough cause, surely)

Sitting on a park bench, luckily, has no such saying associated with it, and they just sat down.
And it was sitting on that park bench in the park, a situation without a saying (though not without a certain clichéd feel to it) that he searched, some might say desperately, I might say with an admirable fervour bordering on manic determination, for the words, words which would come out thusly:

"You have angel's... err... hold still a second."
"Why?"
"Just please."
"All right, fine."
"You have angel's wings in your eyes." (The actual, accurate translation may read "You, ehm, have... angel'swingsinyoureyes... uhh...", with every accord to the preceding less than suave exchange)
"What?"
"Erm... angel's wings." (He sensibly, though possibly wrongly, stuck with the original metaphor, hoping it to be strong enough to carry him and his point, in one fell swoop, through)
"What the hell does that mean?" (And, obviously, it didn't.)
"Ehmm..."
"..."
"Er."
" "
"I'm not really sure, I guess."

Thus ends our story of intrigue, espionage, and torpor.
Still sitting on a park bench, lips suitably (and luckily, though how they got there, don't ask me, especially considering the preceding exchange) otherwise engaged, the world was not a concern of theirs.
Which was nice, not having the world as concern, as it's rather a big mess, full of strife, rather poor take away food, and over-priced drinks. So they carried on, on the park bench, in unseasonably warm and sunny conditions for the remainder of the day, on into an unseasonably, almost excruciatingly contrived, warm night, through the next delightful morning, and for the sickingly pleasant final day of the weekend.
And not once did he think of the football matches he was missing, nor did she think of the things that women do on weekends.

disclaimer:
The women of the office were, sadly, out of office for the final print of this issue, so we weren't actually able to find out what it is women do on the weekends, but, if they're anything like men, we assume it's something to do with alcohol, lots of people kicking a ball around, and singing naff songs at the top of their lungs.
And getting drunk.
We'll get back to you if we hear otherwise, though.


now	\|	archives	\|	horoscopes	\|	contacts	\|	home


		Painfully Pleasant, or How The Weekend Would Have Hoped to Have Gone
	archives horoscopes contacts fables home	The saying that goes something along the lines of "a walk in the park," and is generally used to refer to something that might be considered relatively easy to perform (unless the person using it tends to get his or her sayings mixed up, which is highly unlikely, though possible, even in this case, and I, myself, may have been known to commit the error from time to time, though with good enough cause, surely) Sitting on a park bench, luckily, has no such saying associated with it, and they just sat down. And it was sitting on that park bench in the park, a situation without a saying (though not without a certain clichéd feel to it) that he searched, some might say desperately, I might say with an admirable fervour bordering on manic determination, for the words, words which would come out thusly: "You have angel's... err... hold still a second." "Why?" "Just please." "All right, fine." "You have angel's wings in your eyes." (The actual, accurate translation may read "You, ehm, have... angel'swingsinyoureyes... uhh...", with every accord to the preceding less than suave exchange) "What?" "Erm... angel's wings." (He sensibly, though possibly wrongly, stuck with the original metaphor, hoping it to be strong enough to carry him and his point, in one fell swoop, through) "What the hell does that mean?" (And, obviously, it didn't.) "Ehmm..." "..." "Er." " " "I'm not really sure, I guess." Thus ends our story of intrigue, espionage, and torpor. Still sitting on a park bench, lips suitably (and luckily, though how they got there, don't ask me, especially considering the preceding exchange) otherwise engaged, the world was not a concern of theirs. Which was nice, not having the world as concern, as it's rather a big mess, full of strife, rather poor take away food, and over-priced drinks. So they carried on, on the park bench, in unseasonably warm and sunny conditions for the remainder of the day, on into an unseasonably, almost excruciatingly contrived, warm night, through the next delightful morning, and for the sickingly pleasant final day of the weekend. And not once did he think of the football matches he was missing, nor did she think of the things that women do on weekends. disclaimer: The women of the office were, sadly, out of office for the final print of this issue, so we weren't actually able to find out what it is women do on the weekends, but, if they're anything like men, we assume it's something to do with alcohol, lots of people kicking a ball around, and singing naff songs at the top of their lungs. And getting drunk. We'll get back to you if we hear otherwise, though.

Painfully Pleasant,