The atmosphere was one of light-hardheartedness and general mirth. Small talk and generic persiflage tickled the ears of passersby; the ubiquitous red shirts and old-style, ripped blue jeans that comprised the uniform of the shopkeepers might have been distracting, had the scene itself not provided a multiplicity of foreign and wild distractions. The floors were scattered haphazardly with tiles of multifarious shape and style. The mad colors blended with the dull grout and otherwise quotidian construction of the old building. Indeed, had those employed been dressed in naught but their essentials, the newcomer to this exhibit would have thought it none the stranger nor less fantastic. The walls held hand-painted murals and glass mosaics of nefarious looking poultry and graphic demembrations of various fowl. Many have pondered the state of consciousness of the artist from whose mind these images came: demented, insane, inebriated?
The establishment manages, somehow, to escape giving the impressions of a spurious or dubious nature. The real danger lies in the posterior of the curious shop. The clandestine–nay, even surreptitious–operations of those who work behind the visible operation. Indubitably, the operations were properly sanctioned through the various and customary routes of authoritarian government obtainment of permissions, yet when one was allowed into the cookery, the crushing reality of the atrocities committed therein were brought to light. Composed of the organization was this verse of undoubted truth and verisimilitude:
‘Twas a scene so foul, In the indeterminable bowel,
Of that terrible, queer, and violent store.
The place did give, of its own derive,
A feeling and aura, reminisce of Pandora,
Hidden behind that deathly door.
For whom did it open? For what was within?
What could in the dreadful unknown be?
There behind that door of metal,
Wrought from pan, pot, and kettle,
There work the ones who peddle,
The lovely fried goodness, we call, KFC.
Salutations distinguées,
XanthusKidd
The supererogatory nature of this sesquipedalian assault on a blameless English language cannot be denied.
I ain’t got no qualms with it, neither.
Orwell would love you.
I would love to meet Orwell!
Whenever I see the word obfucation, a mental image of lawyers and politicians always pop up in my mind.
Haha, I wonder why?
Loved it. I am going to steal some of these words for the next time I need to sound clever.
I recently started a list of my favorite words. This post was an attempt to have a high density of those words in one story. I’d love for more people to use vocabulary like this!
Titular is my favourite word at the moment. It has a very different meaning to me and can be squeezed into many essays. Although I HATE the overuse of the word random, something you’re quite partial to, it’s one of my pet peeves.
Ah yes, titular is a fun word. I shall, however, have to offer my apologies, but I will stand my ground. Random, be it as mundane or overused as it is, stands as one of my favorite words.