Supercilious

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Mr. and Mrs. McGillicuddy’s obsequious and tacit nature mollified my penchant for loquacious lamentation. I was a bit of a toady when I expressed my desire to abscond to the belfry, but I am no sycophant. Their largess inclinations left my thoughts convoluted, to say the least. I questioned why they would sanction a surly misanthrope like me. I was taught the credulous and judicious live longer, and that discernment is a gift. Listen to me prattling on as though I am a paragon of rhetoric. Nothing could be further from the truth.

The man of the house was erudite and stolid. He spent hours laboring over tomes on ancient times, thus distending his mind with esoteric jargon. It was deleterious to his health and emptied his coffers, a fact that perturbed his helpmate, as she was a sybarite given to ostentatious bouts of frivolous spending. There was a bevy of debutants in town known for their frenetic extravagance, and she wanted nothing more than to be lionized with them. I believe this proclivity led to the tirade raging beneath me at this very moment.

Thundering castigation acceded to the rafters as the querulous duo slung fervid assertions. A male voice threatened to jettison the tawdry tart into oblivion. She retorted with a bombastic diatribe of her own, accusing the man of being a boorish, verbose, wizened charlatan.

I sat alone in my monastic tower hoping for a salubrious abeyance from this onerous existence, listlessly praying for a release from this grievous abyss of perfidious purgatory.

And then, a sound, so sweet my restive soul levitated with a rare burst of intrepid zeal!

“Dude, what are you doing right now?”

“I’m alleviating my qualms with whimsical prose!”

“You know I hate it when you do this.”

“But few things best a sublime lexicon.”

“Stop it or I’m hanging up.”

“So pugnacious.”

“I’m serious, stop. So, what’s going on?”

“Mom and dad are fighting about money again and I’m hiding upstairs in my room.”

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