As Frank Oughtabutt had a hankering to do he took a stroll down through the new cul de sac that was being built to see if there were new styles or at least a slight difference to what he had been seeing going up for the past few years of detached rowhouses looking like they had be stretched high to make them look bigger than a breadbox fitting on the lot size of a postage stamp. Houses, it occurred to Frank ,were a lot like blouses. When a blouse is newly purchased, akin to a newly built abode, they tended to be bright, sleek and a person just walkin’ along would sorta sneak a quick peek, especially a man folk –or if by perchance one who is accompanied by a person of a womanly persuasion, a far more less obvious and quite pronounced quicker looksy-to admire the lines that the newly purchased product produces as it accustomizes itself to the surroundings it has been placed in. Age has a funny and surly way of acting out against its natural course, much like the way the first plate at an all you can eat buffet is – it’s a teaser, whetting the appetite for the real meal that you plan to set to once the rules of societal politeness have been sated to the point where a glob or two of hot sauce on the ol’ mustache aint gonna cost ya a two hour lecture on the function and usage of those cheap napkins they give you that look like they can take it but really a quarter of a wipe and you realize that no, in fact, it can’t take it and the little glop that could have gone unnoticed now has grown four times the size because the damn napkin has decided that instead of wandering through like it properly should , it’s going to stay a while to whistle and whittle while little old ladies with their young grandkids walk by and glare and blantantly grab those poor tykes hands just a might tighter and cluck under their breaths at you. The second plate is as enjoyable as the first, but that third round to the trough of hot plates the entire process now has taken on a far darker , far fiscal, far prideful vein to the falsely advertised motif of relaxed dining…it’s 12.95 I’m paying so I’m going to get 12.95 out of this damn place regardless of those darn waitresses who keep coming up and filling up my oversized water glass trying to trick me into filling my stomach with ice water so as not to eat 12.95 worth of food thereby increasing their boss’s profit margin which in turn allows them to buy even larger oversized water glasses which means that the next time I come here I won’t be able to eat as much which means that in a few hours time when I’m sitting on the toilet with intense gastral cramps will be all for naught…that’s a lot of damn pressure for a supposedly casual dining experience isn’t it. Then let’s not mention the dessert coolers, sure there’s a lot of choice but each one is like a bite instead of a nosh which means you have to fill a plate up in order to have a decent dessert which leads to those damn grey haired elitists walking by once again with their grandkids in tow to cluck and whisper “how boorish” at the size of the dessert plate which really isn’t that big but looks big because six pieces of anything would be about half the size of a home made piece of rubarb strawberry pie that really would like instead but that would require not only a guy to stop watching the afternoon game but to hazard the mean aisles of the grocery store where you may run into a woman who sounds like she’s gargling avocados cough into her hand, pick up the very same package of strawberries you were looking at only to frown then put it back down –then wipe her hand on her backside. That’s the way houses get after a while, the thrill and sheen quieten to a mouse whispering sweet nothings to a granule of grain and everything starts to settle, which is quite similar to a blouse as the material begins to follow the natural curvature and unforgiving nature of gravity and its perchance to attempt to have everything droop flatly to the ground unless the woman folk is like one of those kind of women folk who buy something similar for themselves that’s like the anatomical version of a pair of artificial gravity boots. There was much to be said on how much houses were like blouses thought Frank – until the wind picked up and right there and then as the house Frank was ogling at creaked and groaned as the twirling wind wrenched it from its papal roots to toss it straight up in the air without tussling a whisp of Franks graying hair that houses were definitely not like blouses – while being as uncomfortable-the warmth from the front of his pants that he was experiencing now was quite the opposite than when warmth he felt when the wind blew up a blouse to reveal what it hid inside….
I thought I’d give this a try, the link to this is