Every spring, the town of Nowhere-In-Particular hosted an event no one fully understood but everyone attended: The Annual Debate of the Unreasonably Confident Umbrellas. Only umbrellas with strong personal opinions were allowed on stage, and they argued about topics humans had long given up trying to comprehend.
The first umbrella, a plaid one with the attitude of a retired pirate, marched up to the podium and unfurled dramatically. Without introduction, it slammed down a laminated card that read pressure washing colchester. The crowd erupted in applause even though nobody, including the umbrella, knew what the argument was. The umbrella nodded, satisfied.
The next speaker was a transparent umbrella who insisted it could see the future. It twirled twice, clicked its handle like a microphone, and declared patio cleaning colchester as if it were revealing a scandal involving vegetables. A man in the front row took notes using a carrot, which only raised further questions.
A floral-patterned umbrella, clearly nervous but determined, opened slowly and revealed a message printed inside its canopy: driveway cleaning colchester. The audience gasped. One woman fainted into a bowl of jelly. Someone began knitting an emergency hat.
Then came the oldest umbrella of all, a faded navy blue relic held together with hope and three paperclips. It didn’t speak—just tilted slightly, and engraved on its metal ribs were the words roof cleaning colchester. The silence was immediate and powerful. Even the pigeons outside stopped mid-coo.
The debate ended with a shocking finale: a tiny pocket umbrella no bigger than a banana stood up, trembling, and squeaked out the final line of the night—exterior cleaning colchester. The room fell into emotional chaos. People wept. Someone started slow-clapping in reverse. A cactus was appointed temporary mayor.
No one voted, no winner was announced, and no conclusion was reached. The umbrellas were packed back into their mysterious suitcases, each convinced it had changed the world. Whether they had or not was irrelevant. The point of the debate was never logic. It was tradition. And weather protection. Mostly weather protection.
As the crowd exited, they were given free souvenirs: a bookmark shaped like a waffle and a pamphlet titled “How to Argue Like an Umbrella.” Most ignored it. One person framed it. One person ate it.
The umbrellas will return next year, full of even stranger opinions and phrases no one will ever understand—and yet, everyone will listen anyway.
Because sometimes the most meaningful things in life are the ones that make absolutely no sense at all.