It was the middle of March in Chicago. To be precise, it was the Ides of March, the historic day whence Julius Caesar [Inventor of salad and a hairstyle] allegedly spoke the words, “Great ghost of myself. Et tu, Brute?”
It was 70 degrees, and the sun was shining brightly as if were 82. As any good native of Chicago knows, this was a bonus day, as in, it was as rare as an edible pre-packaged thing of apple pie, as in, probably definitely a byproduct of the impending global warming, which will certainly devastate us all, as in it could easily snow the next day. By the by, it did, followed by reasonable tornadoes the next.
Bob and Mary Lubbo were not idiots, although their appearance would make you think otherwise. Matching tweed will never be a thing. Never!
They seized the moment, or as the Latin say, ‘carpe moment’, by taking a walk in the park. Mary flowed like an extra in a musical, while Bob let his eyes guide the movement of his head, back and forth, then up and down, then all over the place. He opened his arms as if to hug someone much larger than him.
Mary plopped down on the grass, it was still hard and annoyingly moist. She would regret this, for tweed never forgives nature’s stains, rendering it obsolete garbage. Instinctively, and without thinking, she reclined, and the back of her head squished firmly on the ground. What did she care? It was a Goddamn bonus gorgeous day.
Bob took a deep breath, his chest rising as it filled with air. He loved this weather so much, he had to blurt, “I love this weather so much. Take a deep breath and savor it!”
Thusly, Mary did, only to immediately realize her head had landed on not mud, but excrement, perhaps human. She added her very own vomit to the malodorous vibe she was amongst.