Sometimes Rake, but never Umbrella (R.I.P.)Mature

"How in the name of hell can someone be dead for 10 minutes and nobody notices?!" yelled the Spade in disgust the next morning. "I didn't even realise we had an Umbrella in the vicinity" said the Lawnmower, "You don't realise a lot of things though, do you? said the smug Spade, who had now left the lifeless carcass of the Umbrella and was resting up against the Tumble Dryer. "Well, I'll say one thing about her, she was a miserable cow, always stuck in that damp corner, it's her own fault she died you know!, anyone who stands underneath a leak for an extended period of time is asking for trouble!"
"Sometimes Hypothermia is a better death than being crushed in a bin wagon!" said the Rake, distraught "You really don't give a shit about anyone but yourself do you?, if you had actually given her some respect and made her remaining life better then she probably would have come out of that dingy corner and still be with us!" 
"Don't give me that, you know I don't deal with old, worn out, ugly things like her, the fact is she's dead now, and there's nothing we can do to get her body out of here until the bin men come!, and the sight of it will just make me sick, somebody cover her up!"
"That wont help the smell of rotting fabric" the Trowel cleverly pointed out
"Cover it up with Weed Killer then!" yelled the Spade in frustration
"I'd prefer rotting fabric in that case" replied the Trowel
"Hey!!" cried the bottle of Weed Killer
"ENOUGH!" the Rake shouted at the top of his spikes. Don't you see what we're doing? We're stretching out an idea that will not provide enough ground for a satisfying chapter storyline, truth be told, I'm finding it hard to get the reader to empathize with the death of a character that hardly ever spoke, so shall we all just start again, and draw a line under this, because in all honesty, it's verging on being serious, and that just can't happen"
"For fuck sake dude, can we not go one whole chapter without breaking the fourth wall?!" said the Spade in dismay.
"I don't think so, maybe the writer chose a bad setting for the story, I mean, there's only so much you can do with a shed and a few garden tools, if you go on for too long it just gets ridiculous"
"I don't get it" puzzled the Lawnmower, "is the Umbrella really dead?"
"No I'm not you dumbfuck, I've been trying to lay here, still as a corpse and attempting to hold back my laughter at your ridiculous acting skills!"

At this point the writer gave up, and began to ponder about all of the amazing stories he could potentially craft with his vivid imagination. He also wondered why he ever started writing about talking garden tools in a shed. Was it practice for a bigger project? Was it just a waste of time? or did it have a deeper meaning behind it?, was his "random" choice of setting and characters trying to subliminally tell him something about his future and destiny?

Well, it could be any of those, but you could just say, he's a fucking idiot.

Playtime is over.

Time for something completely different.

Fin.

 

 

 

The End

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