A Man

The Exploits of an Exceptionally Interesting Fellow

     He cruised down main street in a red wagon pulled by three golden retrievers while reading a book on Darwinism. He went to a local bar at happy hour and bought a Shirley Temple and happily sipped away, without the slightest desire to move unto one the women who wore their heart in between their legs. They had already been bought enough drinks. That being said, it could be supposed that he was rather lonely. Traveling an urban road with nowhere to empty his heavy load (if you know what I mean). He looked a vagabond, like an untrimmed George Harrison (Post-Beatles, Pre-Cancer; of course). To the men in suits peering from high above in their tall towers of glass and porcelain, he was a blemish with a six-string slung across his back. How did he afford the guitar anyways? He must of stole it.

     But to the clever ones, such as myself, knew better. He played his guitar in front of a beautiful painting he made himself, while singing badly to lyrics written in calligraphy. The murmurs of disdain that had been traveling from ear to ear came to a screeching halt as the folks around heard and saw. Heard and saw and smelled. Heard and saw and smelled and felt. Even tasted. And perhaps then, he wasn't so bad. Maybe he did have a home. Maybe he did have a family, or a girlfriend. Maybe he had friends. Maybe he had a job. Sure, before that he was a gypsy. A vagabond. A hobo. A nobody. A hermit. A tramp. A 47 percent-ee, never able to wriggle his wormy way into the 53 percentile. But now, he was anybody. And everybody.

      I am proud to know this man personally. So who was he? Would it be as much fun if I told you?

Author's Note

Please criticize harshly and constructively so that I may improve.

Reviews

[Marie]

You did a great description of this man...it makes me want to know him.

If you want to improve, read some other writers on this site (Moi, for instance...)