Orson Dwid had just about had it with the guy wearing the bright pink shirt and scintillating green jeans. Where the hell do they sell that kind of. . . . Orson could not think of an appropriate adjective to describe whatever the guy was wearing. He was going to say ‘shit’ but it was Sunday and he tried really hard not to be profane or obscene on Sundays. Sometimes it was a difficulty. It was especially a difficulty when guys in pink and green with flaming yellow hair were doing their best to ruin your walk to church.
The guy wearing pink and green was strolling down the sidewalk ahead of Orson. Strolling is a kind word. The fool was strutting, pirouetting, wiggling his skinny hinny and waving at all the cars that passed on the pleasant Sunday morning street. He shook his hinny and strutted and flipped his flaming yellow hair away from his face and waved at passing automobiles and squealed “Hi sweetie,” and “Haaaaaaave a honey of a day, sweetie,” and then he started to sing “O what a beautiful morning,” in a very flat soprano–almost a squeal. On Sunday. On God’s day for f. . . flip sake. When people were driving their kids to church. Where the hell. . . . heck did he get off ruining everybody’s Sunday like that. It was disgusting.
Finally Orson Dwid had not only just about had it. He had had it. He had had enough.
“Hey. You.” he bellowed.
Pink and Green stopped in mid strutting pirouette. He lifted his head and dropped his chin and looked over his pink shoulder directly at Orson Dwid. He flickered his eye lashes. His very black and very long eye lashes.
“Were you talking to me, sweety,” Pink and Green said. His eyes were as brown as moist dirt.
He turned to face Orson, one fist on akimbo hip. Meanwhile, Orson had not stopped on his trudged to church until he was manicured white eyebrow to long black eyelash to the adversary.
Orson’s face had turned the bright orange of rage. “My name is NOT ‘sweetie,” he squealed, thrusting forward his stubborn, thrice shaven jaw. He realized that he was losing all control and was at any moment about to blaspheme the Sunday away. He was becoming less and less happy about this and about the que. . . . Orson could not think of a Sunday adjective for the . . . . whatever standing in his path.
“Whoa Dudette,” Pink and Green said, “Mellow. It can’t be all that bad.”
“Who do you think you are,” Orson whinnied. “Who the . . . . Humpty-Dumpty do you think you are!” He did not say it as a question.
“Jesus,” Pink and Green had the gall to say. He thrust out a long skinny hand.
Orson Dwid’s rage became inarticulate. He did not touch the blasphemous hand. He tried to say something but couldn’t say it because everything that popped into the fire of his mind was really, really obscene, blasphemous and profane. About all he could manage—and this was hard—was “You go straight to Hell.”
“Been there, done that,” Jesus said. “But really, hon, you need to chill, flow with the go.” He dropped his offered hand, since it was obvious to both of them, that Orson Dwid was not going to touch, much less shake it.
Orson’s orange rage turned a blind and furious red.
“Who. . . . think. . . . blud. . . .fu. . . .,” Orson spit and foamed and hissed.
“I wish I could help you,” Jesus said. “But, we all gotta walk the valley.” He flipped the two finger V salute, said “Peace,” pirouetted and, skinny hinny shaking, danced away.
Drafted in response to a prompt: flexibility.