A Lesson in Neighborliness.

 

A neighbor who has offered to defend our family homestead from the depredations of random bands of rootless pre-pubescent cosmopolitans who, for the time being at least, seem to sweep through our area on a nightly basis, has manifested these weird episodes of manic screaming and furniture breakage to the point where I don't feel I can any longer trust him to perform as the 'vigilant citizen' I once thought him to be. With the exception of a dinner that our kids expropriated from a homeless veteran of the Maltese War, there hasn't been much to complain about lately. Barring an outbreak of terminal memetic aphasia, I don't know when I've been so undone by my wife's struggle to malign a corpulent bugbear or two with whom I've developed a sleep strategy second to none in our known vistas of fantasy prone Communists.

The tramp who's been making a temporary shelter in one of our outbuildings in exchange for pruning the wisterias, has taken a bold stand and refused all offers of hypoconvulsive spectro-therapy to the point where one has to wonder who and what and where's the pine-scented blob around here? For my part, the tidings of evening trickerie and overflowing emotional support ducats have been a boon to my tooth enamel replacement hysteria and a certain despondency has set in among the support staff that seems to rain on parades not yet plotted to honor desecrated holiday-makers the world over. Over and above all that, the  painting on our outflow has reached a tippering bunt that I can't quite tell myself wasn't planned long ago, before our kids' tutors started to sulk. They'll be getting theirs; you can count on it.

And in case anyone in the Capro Support Monstrosity is starting to get their tootsies in a bind about my or anyone's capacity to inveigle a snapshot of prim potency readings from the odd-numbered docket Community School 7, they should rest easy, pop a few pins and settle in for a relaxing evening of prime time television viewing. I predict that in the coming years the study of the Flemish language and its literature will take root and grow like wildfire among today's young adults. I've seen this coming for a long time. You just can't stop this sort of thing once it gets started. People get a 'certain something' in their blood and woe to he (or she) who tries to extract it, whether through strong-arm tactics or gentle persuasion. Or even tickling. That's just how it goes. I'll say it one more time: We're all grown-ups here. This is slipping (not).

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We now know who is involved.

 

They taught me how, but not when, to lie. The training was received with a smile not to be noticed by whatever uncomfortable adversary might move into the foreground and admit defeat in today's playground. The love and dignity, as having given our words a stem-frothing aspect, can (and will) no longer hold the wan target aloft, an occasion of plyable toy-wisdom particle fraud. A measure which is always of a unique ratio, is sure to batter in principled duos with the gently rising craft of one so belivid as meets the grace of tofts. The tradnastitive amalgam of trufe, replete inside olleyways abade the wainscotting, is sure to hold dramastic plauditures when easing a measure of cave-like operating injectives, but the wife of our minch-haus, flagrant and taudney, one could not help stressing, the hairline breaching above all whose nose is a shallow victim's paleface perch.

We are given to a wand's purr as the crapid effluvia is seen to dictate each flange's polymerized ovectic ransom. But the trime to a wolferd, adknowledged and fissured to a scrim of fare-thee-won'ts, is draining the pate of frofulent chimps as only Nelson can. But 'why?' is a count we fold, the drippage to pace Onan's wickery puffed stochastic floor. If ever the delay seen in fields should be felt as the disaster it isn't, then my martial plague, attenuated in frisky allotments, will hold a pin to the nape of infamy! A chersh! And feribault trash palates acleft the furbles! We train our own reducers and pick out jaunts with emaciated pleasers, the nub of all solemn ploughshares. Delighted we mask, but a sorry induction of our leaky wigstumps turns the entire village into a stable offering of intrepid histamine scamps.

You have eaten our papers. But our hope is for your filial accretion of a fine marbelized dust. The pelucrid vinitor abvolves crime to a light of weaves. And grow as it must, our dupe is foursquare operational as a blunted mood stems the tribe. The nose you crave is only ever our daily marketing plod, or so one vicious, winsome lad likes to pretend while home is approached with a keening holyferd nightgram of truth. A bezel or three will get you one. Our farmers approve of your likely liminal basking hut. But a brain? That's just too fucking hot!

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Line Management Schema.

 

There is a placement of lines in our local atmosphere that I'd say I was starting to get used to if not for a persistent oily rash inside my second forehead. It's not only the ratio of light to shading, but for the sound-threading itself, especially when it seems to swirl, that my very mentation assumes the status of a negligently perforated wig pattern.

But the disadvantages of making any kind of definitive statement at a time like this is that no one would think it wise to tell me where it could end, or even if a person in my position could be likely to recover a practical reason to maintain a paltry modicum of hardheaded, yet modern, religious affiliation. If all goes as it has been alleged to have been planned, by this time tomorrow I'll be ensconced in seat 32B on Amtrak's Kalthorn Moverm, with Jake and Kathy by my side, a portion of dainty comestibles at the ready and a reliably engrossing selection of reading matter to take my mind off the predicament I can't seem to shake rid of.

It's my name and I'm entitled to it, is all I ever said. Now that the 'professional people' are so involved, it'll be a 'day at the beach' if I can ever see my way straight again to stare a false God in the mouth and smile without leaning into a torpid, if sultry, breeze. It's because of the trim that was applied to my standing field that I find this stigmatized atmosphere so impressive. A wave of fealty has been shown to engage folks like me in a grimy, indigent spree of wisdom theft at distance.

The program begins when we are shown to our personalized crates. Even when the likely announcement is made that everything we need will be placed neatly within, a rising sense of incompletion will hold center stage at each non-professional tournament I'm forced to attend. Despite what some of the younger readers may choose to believe, when I was a kid this wasn't how things generally went. For starters, each suspiciously telltale line would be followed to its very end. Try that today and see where that gets you! You won't be disappointed, I'm sure! But even now, with the ever rising ring of phagistry overwhelming this very continent, there is still hope that a fear of waitlessness will usher in a New Era of Sun in Our Brain. It won't be soon enough. Have a good lunch. Please stop it.

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This is NOT about 'burning hand syndrome'.

 

She has reported a steadily burning hand at or above a suspicious notch adjacent to the three-sided wall. Yes, an excuse is always available, but we are also aware of her tendency to pad results in expectation of candied, yet removable, dollops deposited on her exposed slip. I make of her what I will, but that doesn't stop feeble-minded service personnel from drawing their own conclusions, no matter how frenzied. Everyone has noticed a transition being called forth, yet no one is powerless to stop it. They  wouldn't want to anyway. If anyone asks about my assistant, they will be fed a story about him desiring to spend more time with his family. He has no family, just many genetic enemies. And, they play for keeps. I see no reason why they should not also receive an invitation to our Summer Event. When one of them is observed slipping silently into a position of superlative compromise, it will be our cue to link arms in a futile gesture of invasive solidarity. Ho-hum.

Has a person assuming your position of autonomous deception ever been known to look askance at the endurance statistics of underserved gantry clods whenever they see fit to form gigantic, if no longer visible, circles in a less-than-praiseworthy manner? We just don't think it's a coincidence that a known individual in hyper-colonial dress would go so  far as to think twice when making a abrupt about-face, thereby leaving one of his most precious hebephrenics in the dust to scrounge for scrumptious comestibles in spades. And this doesn't begin to account for a 'certain someone's' lazy eye when a person of dubious girth begins to water her garden with all the grace of a viciously tattooed leprechaun of some distinction. It just goes to show you, me and everyone else besides, what can be accomplished with even a modicum of grit and bile in all the right places. I stood her up in the corner, and now she wants to eat my brains. Go figure.

A standardized account of quotidian fading is all that's on offer from our less-than-sanguine Junior Petty Officer [JPO] Martin Dulmquif. It seems he prefers to just lump in everything under one and the same roof and see what transpires. I will go to my grave incomparably mystified by his indomitable odor profile. It's the kind of thing which undulates through all our personal petrie dishes, to the point where only an executive of a major non-profit has any business attempting egress in the late afternoon hours, if that. I have it on good authority that only the barest link in the chain of causation would be enough to forge an air-tight esplanade when one or more endogenous miscreants decide to get a very furry ball rolling for good. From the looks of it, you yourself may have been spotted wolfing down our latest tranche of contested petting results. If so, that would be a permanent black mark against your name in the precincts of barely adapted kehoes. If it would help, you can be added to our list. Please let my girl know. And no, she won't bite. (She will bite.)

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Andover Silk Recluse!

 

I was promenading through a grown person's demi-detached compound, sporting my favorite Woxperth Chemise, when I happened to notice an arrangement unfolding on a nearby ridge, just out of view from the prominent party of four on whose behalf these details were enriched in the first place. In the second place, one should try very hard to utilize a fully equipped facility, if for no other reason than the person might risk being spoken to, of, within or behind, without first seeking a firm grounding in fundamental truths. I find, though, that this bothers me less than I was warned might be the case. Their smallest son happens to have sought my care after I made it known that I was well regarded in the Christian Community of Tobasco Village, Ohio.

That was when I threw all my final blanking shifts into a lazy pile to gauge the reaction of a hedge fund director to whom I'd given my word to never speak of his wife without her explicit written permission. It came about when she insisted on needling me about my semi-luxuriant coiffure and insisted on confusing me one too many times with a backfielder from weeks ago in spite of the fact that my age and height didn't quite fit the facts of the case. I once knew a landowner who I'd seen walking in a neighbor's scraggly yard. He'd put up the seed money to have my son arrested for aggravated depravity and had seen to it that I'd never walk alone inside my private quarters again. We insisted on drifting through space without ever having given a thought to commonsense precautions. This includes wires, stoppers, padding and strong points. You could say that we thought (mistakenly) that we were still young. It's possible that you might consider saying something else as well. It's your call 

If any one of us had given thought to the possibility, I, for one, was never made aware of it, much to my ongoing detriment. They'll press you length-wise into a gradual compartment and still expect to you to scrounge your way to the very beginning without anyone offering so much as a 'Hang tough, Mister!'. And only those who are blind to the psychological whiplash inherent in pending seizure operations could think to stop offering people in my ring an iota of pressure release when things come to a sterling position. They'll ask you for a cigarette (even though you've never smoked), look you straight in the eye and pronounce you fit for a wonderful exchange. This could take some getting used to. If, however, we've attached ourselves to a master agreement, any built-in passions will release us with a drum and a roll. The tilt of my jib will communicate a mildness which never expects even a wan recusal. This can't be like anyone else's emolument claw. It lacks the chartered signature of 'Lady Luck'. Now you know we'll give you a caring gesture featuring the tiniest hint of perfidy. Please know also that you are welcome anytime, as long as she arrives first. It helps to string some of the items along a wall. Flurmp.

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Does this lead where she thinks it leads?

 

All of whom are wailing, the silent lapse. On down behind Kenneth's shelf, the fortraiture, when dissolved, amounts to a cunning reversal. Owners of a scope will withhold a dreaded mouth of bridges. But one who, alone atrembling the boove, becalms Gecanthi's olmercraft as a tall stunting page, gets herself one. Now that we think about it, our hearts creak asunder. The patient's starry boner is photographed in the needless pomp of allegiance in crisis. The sullen push-back that we've seen recorded in your now lost diagram, will entice any random Leotard to scrimp and pause even as it rolls to a stop in a filagreed lintel's tragic Pharmakon. It grips as it wheedles and snips to an authenticated gasp. By stealing a page from the troubling foam, our largest ally seeks to grant a one-day reprieve to a tolerably honest whyfor.

But jutting through all of it, with a pale high-toned ode to ceilings of bewelprin, a jangled miracle tree will be seen to fear invasion through a time-space kit of startled olgery. Just as it always floats our boat in a bonnet of atrophied warning silk, the saving of three misplaced particles could yield the way to a vision of astounding penises. They may fold in the face of banter but any sacrificial check on the noontime bailiwick approaches the hallmark status which justifies its very spatial penwipe. It's how we erase the grids. With apologies to the peace of our likely urge to flip, a collection of rare insects is enough to ensure our attendance at an occasion of middling congestance. In this case, only you will be awarded a coveted Mental Health Certificate. We're sorry if the zone specified is incorrect; it's all we could do to betray our betters' notion of an adherence to standard specifications.

Like the four others who pretend to find your genetic forebears listed in a book of lists, I stake my hat on your ability to score a flint weasel inside your treasured highlight reel. We will donate carpets to valiant hustlers and our brow is expected to knit one fatal pink iota into the task of decisions. This could get all of us somewhere, if only you would pay a third party to risk attending. The brink is 'shovel ready'. And our lanky bunkmate is appropriately abashed. Why do you never wash the alcove with a river of astonished pudding?

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Word association quiz.

 

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