sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

"Buttered side up, please."
"What?"
"Buttered side up, please."
"Right."
He gathered his things together in a neat pile on the countertop, by the side of his cup of tea, but just to the right of the spreading tea stain and stray sugar granules. Slowly, he drew out a pen from the pile, and began tap-tapping on the formica to the left of his tea cup, smack in the middle of a rather impressively (taking into account certain laws of physics) thick puddle of tea, left there from an earlier brief conversation (and a rather animated one, too, see the puddle of tea as evidence) with a fellow patron about the price of tea in China and tariff law, which, per yet other laws of physics, sprayed everyone within a reasonable distance liberally with the suprisingly copious amounts of tea from that puddle.
Not that they were one (or many) to complain, but as any of them may have been about to complain is when he kicked off one of his shoes, and then the other (landing helpfully on a small dog, lying by the door), and spun wildly around on his barstool, still tap-tapping as he spun around, and quickly converting the pen to a conductor's baton, conducting the awestruck crowd behind him now in front of him now behind him again with a passionate abandon you only see in movies (or on Sunday mornings or other times, too), and, enjoying the reaction of the dog to the shoe, he loosed on of his socks at a fellow diner at a table, who reacted slightly less enthusiastically to the nicely darned green sock now sitting across his shoulder.
Fifteen minutes later, he'd managed to disperse his entire pile of goods formerly piled by his teacup (slightly to the right) either behind the counter, on fellow patrons' persons, or to the little dog lying by the door, that just so happened to turn out to be the daughter of one of the fellow patrons, and not a dog at all. She was happy, nonetheless.

No one knows what he was thinking.
Until today.

He was thinking, "Lemon-scented socks are nice."

disclaimer:
Great Britain has apparently turned off it's heat this fine day.


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				You Can Only Go North
		archives horoscopes contacts fables home		"Buttered side up, please." "What?" "Buttered side up, please." "Right." He gathered his things together in a neat pile on the countertop, by the side of his cup of tea, but just to the right of the spreading tea stain and stray sugar granules. Slowly, he drew out a pen from the pile, and began tap-tapping on the formica to the left of his tea cup, smack in the middle of a rather impressively (taking into account certain laws of physics) thick puddle of tea, left there from an earlier brief conversation (and a rather animated one, too, see the puddle of tea as evidence) with a fellow patron about the price of tea in China and tariff law, which, per yet other laws of physics, sprayed everyone within a reasonable distance liberally with the suprisingly copious amounts of tea from that puddle. Not that they were one (or many) to complain, but as any of them may have been about to complain is when he kicked off one of his shoes, and then the other (landing helpfully on a small dog, lying by the door), and spun wildly around on his barstool, still tap-tapping as he spun around, and quickly converting the pen to a conductor's baton, conducting the awestruck crowd behind him now in front of him now behind him again with a passionate abandon you only see in movies (or on Sunday mornings or other times, too), and, enjoying the reaction of the dog to the shoe, he loosed on of his socks at a fellow diner at a table, who reacted slightly less enthusiastically to the nicely darned green sock now sitting across his shoulder. Fifteen minutes later, he'd managed to disperse his entire pile of goods formerly piled by his teacup (slightly to the right) either behind the counter, on fellow patrons' persons, or to the little dog lying by the door, that just so happened to turn out to be the daughter of one of the fellow patrons, and not a dog at all. She was happy, nonetheless. No one knows what he was thinking. Until today. He was thinking, "Lemon-scented socks are nice." disclaimer: Great Britain has apparently turned off it's heat this fine day.

You Can Only Go North