Fresh from feeling the stinging rebuke I received from an anonymous and potentially flawed algorithm that deemed my writing to be suitable for consumption at an Elementary School level, I feel the visceral need to forego my normal vernacular conversational tone, typically interlaced with contemporaneous popular culture references, and expound on my weekend anecdotes by utilizing the bloated and nearly incomprehensible linguistic style typically associated with such bloviating gas bags as a recent lugubrious aspirant to the office of the President of the United States, who now, thankfully, is returning to the relative anonymity and inconsequential nature of the sinecure that is incumbent with his role as a Forbes, and one that excels at repeatedly espousing vast wealth at that.
The aforementioned weekend was defined by an acute case of the seasonal malaise that afflicts all who find inclement weather to be detrimental to their beloved interests. With the visual obscuration resulting from the characteristic autumnal climatic patterns being what it was, the challenges of aviation were insurmountable to one of such limited abilities as myself, and for that matter, my aircraft. The ambient weather conditions intimated a change for the worse, possibly involving precipitation of the freezing variety, an event for which I find myself ill prepared. Realizing that, I decided that it would be expedient to perform the semi-annual transformation of my mechanized yard maintenance device, which we usually call the “lawn mower,” into its wintertime configuration of what we commonly refer to as the “snow plow.”
This transformation requires hours of back breaking exertion, accompanied by copious quantities of often blasphemous language. It is an endeavor best effectuated in isolation for that very reason, but simultaneously a task that would benefit from a second pair of hands. Lacking time or desire to recruit additional resources, however, I launched myself into the effort sans compatriot. And I paid the toll. The remainder of the day was spent in excruciating (well, not that bad, really, but that word brought a lot of syllables to the table) discomfort as I found it difficult to lie recumbent for the entirety of the Ohio State versus Illinois athletic event. Not that said event wasn’t fraught with opportunity to leap afoot with choice expletives and violent gesticulations, mind you.
On Sunday, with the weather being even worse that the previous day’s, I sanded the kayak, an activity that generated plenteous amounts of miniscule dust particles that infused themselves into my clothes, hair, and skin, and were thus transferred from my lair in the basement to the rest of the abode. As you can imagine, this was not very popular with the spouse. An expiatory late prandial celebration at the Golden Corral (a gastronomical buffet-style establishment well suited to both my periodic impecuniosity and midday appetite) sufficed to sooth the angst, and the remainder of the weekend was spent cocooned in marital and familial bliss.
So, how did I do? Well, let's consult the expert:
Eh, good enough.