Channeled from a different view
Zak always rose early in the morning, not that he had anything to do, it was more a question of being bored with sleeping.
In the kitchen by the toaster Zak noticed a note. With sticky fingers curdling fat free butter he read its message,
'Dear Dipstick.' Samantha, his devoted wife, always started her messages like that, Zak never knew why, but he felt a kind of homeliness as he was the only man in the house. The message continued,
'Please Hoover the front room.
Luv U,
Samantha.'
Zak scrunched up the note and tossed it in the air head butting it as it came down to send it hurtling into the sink, he let out a loud shriek... 'Goal...' before shuffling into the lounge, the pink lookalike pig slippers adding to his slovenliness. He wiped his fingers on the nearest cushion and picked up the TV remote. He pressed the nipple like buttons until something of interest pacified his Neanderthal mind: a woman with blond hair curled neatly to her ears, little bread buns he thought, and naked from the waist up, described the local weather. Zak promised himself that one day he would travel to Sweden if only to watch the rain. He did so love Digital. He continued to flick from channel to channel: Porn, more porn, slush, more slush. Unfortunately for Zak, unemployment had made him a seedling of the new Labour Party and the rooms brown leather sofa was his bed of discontent. Zak wondered over to the roomsbay window to watch the neighbours trot off to work; great armies of men all marching in the same direction with their long, boastful strides to fill the steel yards and factories throughout the land. And at the end of the day Zak would once again stand behind the criss cross mesh of the curtain and watch them return. They would have the look of defeat on there faces and hold the days hard toil in their hands; their stride would be laconic and lost. But tomorrow, Zak thought, tomorrow they'll rise again in equal numbers and charge the factory gates. How he wished he could join their ranks.
He returned to the sofa. 'Cash in the Attic,' 'Baywatch' followed by a black and white Movie. The day was dreary and long.
It was now late. Standing by the rooms double bookcase, Zak pondered on Samantha's message before reaching up and grabbing a dictionary -dropping dust and two dead moths onto the carpet in the process-. Zak thumbed through its leafy pages hoping for a picture, anything that would give him a clue as to what it looked like.
"Hur....Hur..... WHO-Ver," he muttered. He didn't know what the word meant, but he know that if he didn't facilitate the instruction by the time Samantha arrived home he would be history.
Such is a day to one who's unemployed. Such are the hardships of a modern man.
HePo
In the kitchen by the toaster Zak noticed a note. With sticky fingers curdling fat free butter he read its message,
'Dear Dipstick.' Samantha, his devoted wife, always started her messages like that, Zak never knew why, but he felt a kind of homeliness as he was the only man in the house. The message continued,
'Please Hoover the front room.
Luv U,
Samantha.'
Zak scrunched up the note and tossed it in the air head butting it as it came down to send it hurtling into the sink, he let out a loud shriek... 'Goal...' before shuffling into the lounge, the pink lookalike pig slippers adding to his slovenliness. He wiped his fingers on the nearest cushion and picked up the TV remote. He pressed the nipple like buttons until something of interest pacified his Neanderthal mind: a woman with blond hair curled neatly to her ears, little bread buns he thought, and naked from the waist up, described the local weather. Zak promised himself that one day he would travel to Sweden if only to watch the rain. He did so love Digital. He continued to flick from channel to channel: Porn, more porn, slush, more slush. Unfortunately for Zak, unemployment had made him a seedling of the new Labour Party and the rooms brown leather sofa was his bed of discontent. Zak wondered over to the roomsbay window to watch the neighbours trot off to work; great armies of men all marching in the same direction with their long, boastful strides to fill the steel yards and factories throughout the land. And at the end of the day Zak would once again stand behind the criss cross mesh of the curtain and watch them return. They would have the look of defeat on there faces and hold the days hard toil in their hands; their stride would be laconic and lost. But tomorrow, Zak thought, tomorrow they'll rise again in equal numbers and charge the factory gates. How he wished he could join their ranks.
He returned to the sofa. 'Cash in the Attic,' 'Baywatch' followed by a black and white Movie. The day was dreary and long.
It was now late. Standing by the rooms double bookcase, Zak pondered on Samantha's message before reaching up and grabbing a dictionary -dropping dust and two dead moths onto the carpet in the process-. Zak thumbed through its leafy pages hoping for a picture, anything that would give him a clue as to what it looked like.
"Hur....Hur..... WHO-Ver," he muttered. He didn't know what the word meant, but he know that if he didn't facilitate the instruction by the time Samantha arrived home he would be history.
Such is a day to one who's unemployed. Such are the hardships of a modern man.
HePo