Richard was a morose kind of a guy. His favourite activities included staring at rainy windows and sighing heavily, thereby steaming up any nearby rainy windows. One day, Richard was dressing for another day in the office in his usual brown-brown-brown combo when he suddenly realised he'd left his brown tie in the wash. He plodded downstairs and reached into the washing machine, groping for his tie (ha, groping). He reached deeper and deeper, like a gynaecologist, and soon he had left the kitchen with its harsh flourescent lights and tasteless linoleum far behind him. Richard disappeared from the kitchen and into another world. The fridge hummed mundanely and the lights flickered a little, because they were attention whores.
Richard emerged from a men's room toilet, which has to be some kind of literary device or something. He could hear slow, repetitive thumping from outside the bathroom. His vivid imagination imagined a bald caveboy bonking his head against the wall. He stepped around the two robots making out and walked through the door.
The noise he heard was loud techno music. The room was completely full of stylized cartoon characters dancing to it. There was also a bald caveboy bonking his head against the wall. The setting was dark except for a few flashing colored lights. Up on the stage they were having a freestyle rap-off. The current rappist was a rotund fellow wearing a baggy shirt with a picture of David Bowie on it, in all his cell shaded glory.
Yo, yo, the name's P-H-A-T
I got year's supply of donuts in my P-A-D
Look at me, ma, I done learned how to spell
I hope you're proud of me down there in H-E-L-L
Come on!
Richard blinked, perhaps louder than necessary, for everything went silent and all eyes were on him. He nervously cleared his throat.
"Um, my name's Richard and I sell pocket watch cogs.
One for a dollar or three for 2.95... dawgs."
There was one animated hottie in the crowd who looked less disgusted than the others and it was clear to him she was the one he'd grow old with. It was time to put all his time in the library studying about human mating rituals to use.
He made his way through the crowd, which at some point or another during the last paragraph resumed its bustling activity. The girl eyed him with practiced indifference. He spoke in his persuadiest voice.
"Can I buy you some liquid?"
"Can I buy you some teeth? For biting me?" she retorted. Wronda wasn't about to put to waste her years in the library studying about turning guys down. She was thirsty, however, so she accepted the offer. After a few drinks, they went to a bowling alley.
"So tell me, Wronda. How do taxes work in this world?"
"That's the lamest question you could have possibly asked. Don't be such a bore, or I'll have to show you the door," she Z snapped.
"...So tell me, Wronda. How do... spaghetti?"
Wronda sighed. It was going to take effort to make Richard interesting. After minutes of working at it, she discovered the problem: his brain. He was hardwired to be dull, no matter how many Family Guy shirts he bought. The only solution was to stick an electric egg beater in there and give him a fresh start. So she did.
Richard came to and opened his eyes.
"So how do you feel?" she asked him hopefully.
"Well, I'd rather have a frontal lobotomy than a bottom in front of me. Now bring me a canvas and some paint. Stat."
He painted Wronda while she posed like a '50s housewife, you know, like for irony and stuff. The brain scrambling had caused Richard to lose sight in his right eye, so he could only accurately paint her left half. He had to paint the rest from memory. After an hour, just as she started to lose feeling in her legs, he announced that he was done. He anxiously handed the painting to her.
The left side was a perfect likeness of her and lane 16 behind her. The right side was smeared with feces. She wept. He showed the guy who handled the shoes and he wept too. He knew then that this was his calling; bowling alley employees never cry.
He spent the next few months painting and marrying Wronda. He even found his missing tie, hiding behind a drinking fountain. Happy times.
So people came from far and wide to see
Richard's wacky artworks. He was on the cutting edge of the
contemporary art scene, but if I were to explain how and why his
paintings were so innovative, they would lose their holy fucking
awesomeness. So just imagine that they were frickin' awesome and as big a
break-through as when Jackson Pollock first decided that paintbrushes
could get on their bike/take a long walk off a short pier/go forth and
procrastinate (delete as appropriate). Richard was such a character that
people would run up to him in the streets and ask him to sign their
baby. That way they could sell it on eBay for twice as much. His life
was rich (see why I called him Richard now?) and fulfilling, and he
married a really super hot life model who never even had it off with
Lucien Freud. They had babies that were paint splats on their best
friend's drive, but no one really minded because they were cheap to
raise and didn't really get upset when you forgot their birthdays.
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