a mode of satirical wit depending for its effect on bitter, caustic, and often ironic language that is usually directed against an individual (Merriam-Webster)}
a state of happiness or felicity: bliss (ibid.)}
affected with or expressive of grief or unhappiness: downcast (ibid.)}
<title>The Sartorial Grief of Jacob Thresher</title>
<meta name=”description” content=”a story of useless ardor”>
<meta name=”keywords” content=”amusing, ironic, fucking – precious”>
<link href=”/Stylesheet” rel=”stylesheet”>
Jacob Thresher visited the haberdashery to purchase a suit. A new one that he would need for the receipt of his latest bonus check. Jacob always liked to buy a new suit on the day he was getting his bonus check. A fitting start to the holidays.
<joy>”Haberdasher, I’d like my suit.”</joy>
“Of course, Mr. Thresher. It is made of the finest Italian. We flew it in from Italy after being sheared in Biella outside of Turin,” the haberdasher said. “Would you please step in the changing room so we may test the fit?”
These days were days of triumph. He finally received what he deserved and worked so hard for. After all those years at Goldman-Sachs-SmithBarney. Let alone as a boy at Exiter Academy and dealing with those nits at Harvard. To think they thought they were teaching him anything. Ethics. He had been slaving at the job and still couldn’t afford that second house in the Hamptons. Caitlyn wouldn’t marry him unless he bought that second house. His trust payments couldn’t cover the cost and his father was too healthy to provide an inheritance. If he wasn’t careful he’d have to leave Wall Street for the tech sector and the unwashed masses wearing hoodies while writing code.
He slipped into the changing suite to try the suit. It fit perfectly. Although he was always startled by the change in color. Each one had a slightly different tint. To be expected, he supposed. He left his old suit behind and walked out to the full length mirrors and admired the difference. His youthful appearance projected strength and vitality, even if his frame was less muscular than it had been. The suit made up for that. At least in his mind.
<sarcasm> “You have done it again, Haberdasher. I don’t know what I would do without you.”</sarcasm> Clearly, he would go to that Haitian man next door. Or the Cuban. There are a hundred like him, all clamoring for his money. He could see the desperation they had in their eyes. As if they wouldn’t eat if he didn’t pay. Fools. All they had to do was drag their lazy bones down to the bank. There was always money there for men of means. Decent men. Powerful men.
“I am pleased that you like it. Would you like a steam to ensure the fit?”
“Clearly, I wouldn’t take it without a proper fit. This one was a bit taller than me.”
“Yes, he was. Apparently, his father was a successful rancher before the plague wiped out the sheep. No sheep, no wool. No food. He sacrificed himself to feed the family.”
“His coloring will help me to look healthier, indeed. I will have another after summer,” he said as he put his clothes on and slapped his cheeks for color. It always took a few minutes to get the blood flowing in the new skin.
<sad>”Yes, we will be ready.”</sad>
Jeffrey Messineo runs a small web shop after starting his career cutting video and film. He lives in Southern California with his wife and two boys and can be found on @jeffmessineo or http://www.jeffreymessineo.com