Average Joseph, as we are not supposed to call him, had an average collection of ties to wear, accompanied by an equally average assortment of shirts, in the all-too predictable hues of black, white, and powder blue.
Well, I'll wear my white collar shirt, he thought to himself, his small amount of average wit happy with the pun he had made. White collar. Just like me.
Joe was, in fact, an office worker, performing his duties at an average company in an average-sized cubicle. Even the contents of said cubicle were average, just like their owner. Anyways, that is besides the point, as the grade of Joe's stapler -- do staplers even have grades? -- bears no importance to the topic at hand.
His eyes now fell back to his ties, and the question of which one to wear again rang, with only average speed, through his mind.
The black one?
It would be a safe bet, a fine match, an average match. But it was a little too formal, a little too I'm-going-to-my-average-Sunday-service-as-an-average-parishioner. So no, the black tie was out.
Maybe the stripy one?
It, too, appeared very nonchalant, if a tie can appear that way. In fact, it is so average, that I shan't even waste the words to describe it or the emotions Joe felt towards it. See? Didn't even say the emotions were average, though you could probably guess that already.
Oh. Oh my, where did this one come from?
Wait, what has Joe seen? No, I'm not feigning ignorance or playing this out like a Dick and Jane novel. No, I am genuinely surprised right now. If only I could tell where he was looking, then I might be able to piece together some form of narrative to further this rather average story. But not average on my part, for that matter.
Ah, there it is! Joe has pulled out one of his ties, and it appears to be the black one he originally had an eye for.
This will set me apart.
Yes, he really just thought that; a thought of overbearing normalcy to set his average self apart from the rest, putting him a a step up the podium of the above-average. Nay, setting him onto the podium for the first time.
He has, now, in his hands not the plain black cotton tie. Oh no, he has something far different. Alright, maybe not so different, but I have to at least try and play up the non-stop march of the average here, alright? Again, back to Joe.
Held delicately in his average hands is a bundle of black cotton, a perfectly average colour and completely average fabric. However, what sets this petit parcel apart is what is composes. I shall keep that a secret a while longer, since every story needs a little mystery.
How long has it been since I had to tie one? I've always used clip-ons.
Walking over to the mirror on the other side of the room, cased in an average frame of average pine, Joseph pops his collar and does up the top button, a very average thing to do when tying a tie, I assure you. He then wraps the cloth about his neck, and flutters his hands in an intricate pattern. It, too, however is average in its intricacy, as many an average man, and woman, can perform it.
Mighty fine there, Joseph.
Stepping back to admire his average work, Joe makes strike a little pose, flashes a smile of average teeth, and adjusts his not-so average tie.
For you see, strung at the Average Joseph's neck is a clump of black cotton, a tight knot, but still an average knot, of a classic bow-tie. And who wears those anymore? Certainly not Joe. Certainly not the average.
Now, off to the restaurant.