There was a man on the train this morning wearing a silver tie. It wasn't a statement piece and he wasn't flamboyant in the least; it was just a tragic decision that I will proceed to detail here for your and my amusement.
Let's begin with a full description of the tie. It wasn't straight silver, like, I couldn't check my make-up in it: that would indicate either that he bought it at American Apparel or that his office has a bowl of ecstasy in place of an espresso machine. But this guy was not eccentric, jet-setting, drug addled businessman; he was schlubby, middle-management, two kids at home businessman... so while the background of the tie was a field of dazzling, shimmering silver, there was also a busy paisley pattern on top, the sort that dads use when they've got a fancy client to meet after work and their fifteen year old daughter picked it out for Father's Day and said it was classy. The pattern was also in shades of silver and grey.
Also, the guy did that American-guy-trying-to-match thing where everything else on his body was in shades of the one color, in a sort of monochromatic color wheel. He had a grey shirt, a darker grey suit, darker grey socks, black shoes, and a glimmering beacon of joy where his tie should be.
He looked like a Rococo courtroom sketch of a robot charged with go-go dancing too brightly, and he just made my day. I love you, Rococoroboman, you grumpy, sparkling diamond.
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