On good days, which were rare and far between, we called him Ty. And on bad days, which were all the other times, he went by his full name, Tirade McRanterson. He was 27 years old with a cantankerous soul of a 72 year old. Further, he weighed over 350 pounds. Always out of breath, and created a savage harmony when he breathed through his nose and mouth simultaneously. Not as pressing, but fairly relevant, he smelled like cheese on the verge.
Tirade McRanterson shuffled into work ten minutes late. He was sweating in a most obvious manner. He was the perfect specimen of a man about to keel over and die.
Yesterday, he said, “A man ain’t shit if he can’t live up to his name.” With this, Tirade McRanterson spoke.
“I am sick and tired. Look, I don’t know about any of you, but let’s face facts. Irony is dead. Dead as dead can be. As dead as the career of the person who killed it. Alanis Morissette. As I stated a few days ago, it is not ironic when it rains on your wedding day. It’s bad luck. By spreading such misinformation through a catch ditty, she single-handedly destroyed irony. And without irony, and you can take this to the bank, comedy and drama will become extinct too. We are so fucked.”