The Antidisestablishmentarianist strode out of chapel. His normal doff-capped humility abandoned. In its place, a petulant stride pattern and teenage hunch, that disputed voluminously. Which one was the most naturalistic?
That much was apparent to anyone.
His wife, and reknowned contrarian, Altagracia Mcwethy, though she would invariably and immediately take issue with that particular spelling, had espoused the disestablishment of church and state, long before fastidious pedantry had become de riguer amongst the neo-liberal intelligentsia.
Not that Ms MacWethy would concur.
Tired of being gainsaid, second-guessed, mind-read, head-tripped and ground into the dust of dried-up emasculated masculinity and other hyphenated compounds, Mr McWethey had long since given up on Mr Mwchtey (spell it how the hell I like) who, had long ago tethered the end of his reach to the midlife harbour, commonly known as the booze, He didn't blame the irritating, instransigent, relentless, picky, fussy pedantry, of Mrs/Ms MackWety#~! (I'll spell however the hell I god-damned like) per se. It hadn't helped steady the sway of his dipsomania; and it had certainly increased its oscillation.
But right now, at 10.53pm, Kingston Mcwythe didn't give a flying tinker's fucking cuss.
Last orders loomed like a thunderstorm in a desert.
submitted at 7:32am
7 July 2009
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