Title: Guess There's One of These in Every Yard . . .
Author: Michelle
Disclaimer: I don't feel like outlining all that good junk right at the moment, so I'm not going to. Besides, no one reads these anyway.
Rating: PG-13 for language and sexual references.
Warnings: I can't think of any. Well, I did write it in a very werid sort of mood. The kind that one can only achieve after stuffing themselves silly on real, home-cooked food made by their mother for Thanksgiving. You have no idea how great real food tasted until you haven't had it for what seems like ten years.
Author's Note: This fic has never been introduced to the words 'canon' or 'beta', the idea just came to me and I couldn't stop myself. Too many episodes of X-Files in one day (9, at the present count. Yay for the Thanksgiving Day E-Ballot Marathon! Which I voted in! Twice! *Isn't that illegal or something Mickey?* Yes, Georges, most likely, but I really, really, really love that epsiode with Luke Wilson. Can't help myself. Anyways, as I was trying to say before I was so rudely interupted . . . *You interupted yourself Mickey* Shut up Georges. So, point being, I was staring at an empty wordpad, which I simply can not abide, and watching the aforementioned marathon on FX. And Mulder just plopped a, well, you'll have to read on to see what he did. Even if I DID make it apply to the boys. (Sorta. Actually, I have this set in the future of some weird AU that no one has to care about. I just needed Chris and Mary to be married {*Well, that sounds great Mickey. Mary married. Geesh. Use a thesaurus next time? Please? I am sure I don't speak for just myself when I say. . . * Shut up dude, will you? I'm in the middle of a sentence here!} so that I could have the plot work. Shameless deus ex machina I know, but it couldn't be helped.) And I'm going to stop now and let you read the fic, which I am fairly certain is shorter than this "note".
Oh my god. What the HELL did he just put in the front lawn?
That man really has bad taste. Why I ever married him is completely and utterly beyond me.
Tell me this, please. Now reasonably speaking, if a man wore all black, all the time, 24 - 7 right down to his socks, wouldn't it be safe to surmise, even generally assume that he would avoid color like the plague? The man is freakish when it comes to the anti-color. One of those annoying things that never seem to bother you until after the wedding. And although it has slowly become a pet-peeve of mine, at least I've always been fairly certain he wouldn't go and pull a stunt like this. (Don't get me wrong here, I love the man dearly. But until you have slept on black sheets, used a black toothbrush, and dried your face on a black towel, don't even try and tell me that it wouldn't annoy you.)
I'm staring at it right now and I still can't believe my eyes. He is serioulsy standing back and proudly surveying his work.
And it's not like he's ever given as much as a hint to this twisted side. Never have I seen the man in a scrap of color. (Well, that's not ENTIRELY true. I can personally vouch that he looks very good in the pair of red spandex underwear I bought him last year for Christmas.) But for him to do something like THIS?
My incredulity knows no bounds. I can not fathom any percievable reason that he would impale such an utter and blatant eyesore smack dab in the middle of our lawn. And such a cliche eyesore. Doesn't he realize it's only cute if you're over sixty and colorblind? Oh dear God.
I swear I am never letting him loose in the Home Depot again. Ever. (Though I didn't think the Home Depot would lower themselves to such depths by stocking a contraption so pointless as to be utterly laughable. Plastic might make it possible, but just because something's possible doesn't mean you should do it. Ever seen someone picking their nose as you pass them during rush hour? I rest my case.)
Where in the hell did he get the idea to do this anyway? It must be that friend of his. With those tacky hawaiin print shirts. I'd put money on it.
And what am I supposed to tell my son? Yes dear, your father went a little crazy today. We aren't sure exactly what's wrong with him, but four out of five doctors are prescribing a padded room and a straight jacket.
Oh, now here he comes, wearing that stupid grin plastered straight across his face. That stupid grin, making him look so dead sexy and . . .
Sorry about that. Momentarily sidetracked. But my real point is this:
When was the last time your eyes cast upon a neon pink flamingo?
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