Trend Allocation Cynex.

 

It is not to be treated like a trend approved by persons who fail to get either 'in' or 'out' of the way. Their sediments will settle as they always have, like tried and true particles to be flicked away at some distance from any old over-producing bog. Instead you will see a third one, then a fourth. I will be near you to hold one of your hands while the other one is shifted away from the visibility of those who prevail in our section. This gives us a voluntary movement pro-cast, because in this version you will play one of our tuckered out Sales Associates. I will pretend to watch you urinate underneath an out-of-date wallhanging and challenge you into facing a grove full of partially occluded Futility Slamps. It may not go easy from there, because any of the clods who link to my activities page are already up in arms about our party on the 14th. You should say you'll be there or there could be some 'unexplained' anterior moisture to vex an already stressed claque. Yes, they've never had it up to here like this during a day in the not-so-recent past. Could you blame them?

____________________________

This is what passes for a 'title'.

 

The least stillpointed person in our bargainroom rises to the floor, scopes the lots and walks nonchalantly by a trio of bugpearsos whose only role is to scare up a buck or two for ongoing muscle expenses. He sometimes expresses himself with a gimcrack sense of an absconding paramour of the same old school which he is given to whine about in a peculiar register, known to many who traverse our byways into your average salten lot. I note the stiffness of his gait and decide to trigger a remote procedure to set off a lion's share of active measures. The Bell in my web is best for mantling all prior sudden desks, but even with one too many ordered moments, we like to think of ourselves as up to a task formerly under the purview of the most narrow range of cotton-throated bed-sprayers. I need to keep them close to me in a crisis. They never disappoint. Likely story!

Does anyone in this specific location shift their prerogatives to hedge against the time when foreign elements are engaged in savage contests to cover an iron-domed hitler in a minimal sackcloth dashiki? You'd have a better time remembering the first occasion that I brought you into a side room and compared your appearance to that of one of our finest living sculptors. He was known in our field for his contributions to the common criminal. Before he laid down for the last time, I saw him enter a facility in search of a perishable glass part. In the years just after the War, he noticed that a dark-haired ingenue would repeatedly attempt to worm her way into the good graces of a Dissolved Bishop of an Extraparectual Cathedral.

These things tend not to wind up on some 'cutting room floor'. Far from it, in fact. They normally cause people of tedious hormonal frequencies to check the underlined passages without which the rest of us would go virtually dark. In the mind of your average scofflaw, anything I can see, someone else would have serious trouble pretending not to hide without malice. Which is why we are praying for rain in all 'the wrong places'. You catch my drift. I have seen her lab-folmented feet alter intentions one too many times for this tired blood product. We are descended from a subtle ancestry of Ivoirian budget weavers. They have bequeathed to our blighted lot the brigand's sense of lurching ovoid juices. Come equipped with a foil hankie or risk a tonal pulbation of jejune rattlement. Please keep all of us in a cool, dry Prince's foyer. We will soak up any additional charges and bank them into a punctured twit. You're only sold once. Or so some of us have been told on Nana's knee. You're kidding!

__________________________

A Portrait of Aging with Grace.

 

There is an older person, sometimes known as a winsome exemplar of false comradery, who showed up, even though we'd been cooped up for what seemed like minutes, to lead us through the second-to-last scene. If you're wondering, you can probably find it on page 35 or 36. If you are one of the few who still has access to the older, more fructified, version, it may be hard to find at all. That's because before any older version was destroyed, it was made to appear that any nearly stolen artifact would be folded in one fell swoop inside a single verb.

At length the older person was observed to cough three times in a timorous whimple, signaling for the guards to search our outer things, without so much as asking permission from the Training Associate on site. She had it coming anyway. It's why we pretended to laught while dying. Of boredom, that is. So when the older person removed a piece of revolving paper from inside its special place, guaranteed to appeal mainly to people dedicated to gradualism in all things, it seemed surprising only in a doomed retrospect. Why I say this is for the same reason that I've been lying to myself from the first sign. If some find this hard to believe, their personal cleanliness will come under serious question.

So, as we move into position for the last time, I can taste my reluctance like a bitter product in the pit of my throat. And even though no one is likely to notice, the older person, with an abundance of caution, relives a scene from a youth dedicated to the installation of ecliptic bitelines into a flagrant minority of timorous wingnuts. It's just the way things have started to roll, out of our control, beneath our contempt and always, already, settled.  We've known the older person to be loquacious, but never like this. I have to admit that we've usually been reluctant to commit to participating in a 'secret plot'. If any of us had known that an invasive insect would be released into a novel environment at the conclusion, it would have struck us as a bit odd. That's because the weather had failed to become inclement, despite all forecasts to the contrary.

When I held my pinking tool inside a purity box for the required thirty-one seconds, I got the shock of my life. It seems that unknown to either me, my sister or our grandmother, all the wires had been removed, rendering the mechanism ineffective, if not appropriately dangerous. I'm now skipping down the last half of page 41. If you find when looking at it that there's a small (about 1 cm) defect near the lower right corner, you'll need to submit a blood sample within thirty-six minutes or there's a good chance that someone may die or possibly face a major inconvenience. Action is our only priority, results be damned.

____________________________

A dish, a dream and a dearly deft drip.

 

Zobar jams his elbow right in the center of the dish. The dish is mounted securely to the fourth inner wall so it's in no danger of breaking. It's a ceremonial dish and was discovered in Italy during the inter-War period by someone who knew Zobar's estranged governess. She had a long-term agreement with the family about an apartment over the garage. After the fire, as she pawed her way through the ashes of what remained of her life, she recalled a dream in which Zobar, dressed as a scarecrow, had a vision of how people would live in the distant future. It was a miracle they could still breathe because life was lived almost entirely under the waters of Lake Michigan. The Indian immigrants who opened news stands on the shore during the Summer vacation had a reason to be worried. They could see it coming from a thousand miles aways. So they decided not to make that mistake again. It would cost them dearly if they failed to make the required adustment. It served them right.

In the end no one was fooled. Not Zobar, not his governess, not even some of the kids in town who raked leaves for pocket change. It appeared even they lacked the room to make a quick turn-around. So they just proceeded as if nothing was wrong. And you know what? Nothing was. Wrong, that is. As long as you looked at it with one eye half-closed. What you'd do is, you'd start your line from a point that was a fair piece away. As you moved closer you'd get shorter by the second, until within a day or so only your squirming would arouse suspicion among the disgraced ballplayers who liked to lounge around under trees that always seemed to be looming. This could get someone injured, or even killed God forbid. Why hasn't anyone told you this yet?

It was when the governess first pretended to be addicted to invisible pills that she and her boyfriend, a hanging 'chad' named Miles Whitcomb, decided to break into Alderwave Veterinary Studios Inc. to look for a key to a stolen ivory box. The box was said to contain the remnants of a photocopy of a newspaper article which could prove moderately embarrassing, especially where the deployment of strategic miscalculation is concerned. At the time some said this sounded like the 'perfect plan'. How wrong they were, though. Because this so-called 'boyfriend' character was soon revealed to lack any kind of innate delicacy. He made all the kids pay him a dollar to swim in the lake even though he was known to be allergic to water. And when the Holiday Season rolled around the next year everyone could clearly see that his wig was made of plastic hair. Someone should really do something. No one is sure exactly what as far as I know. Please stay well. Get plenty of rest. Make of it something to lurk for . . ....

_________________________________

The Cream of the Cop.

 

Had I been presented with a simple wall-hanging and expectations had not grown so uncontrollably through recent iterations of each task-ready bomber's portraiture haspiration, then we all agree that the naysayers who looped about willfully would be all but through in our Southern Forest. Their olfactory senses had declined over the months of squalid appearances by our (by now) second Vice Counsel in as many months. The original notions had not yet suffered the random falling pattern that we would come to expect in each of the seven partitions. I was feeling not a little mulish even though my disk was out for everyone to launch remarks at, but, try as we might, any patently bold retrieval buntum could seem to take the place of gold in our sky of white.

The cream of each cop is spread liberally within the inner brain so as to avoid idle prattling at dinners engaged just outside the perimeter of an unused bridge. What triumphs we could sink our collective teeth into were scaled to contain a breathless monad at Streak Level 4. The wind gives us a clue. It peals like leftover skeem, but our happ just gives them a further embankment on the plug side. Perhaps you've seen to it that an unstained tooth begets a null point when persons in a line least expect it. Therein lurks our supreme advantage: vaporized salt and the tenderest, most approachably nonchalant wind-surfing contestant will endow us with solid skills on the outside. The chance that you will grip your ticket to a faded hall undergoing rancid stage action is one hill I refuse to die on.

In the farthest collection of leaking desk feeblitures our morbid obsession with qualified string-wickets throws a new light on Telluride, Wisconsin traffic fatality stats. Don't say that we asked you to withdraw to a rumpled window cleaner's fabric of dread. If you do, we can promise to throw more than a few bones in the direction that you've consistently failed to cease forgetting. A bit of attractiveness could help prevent poverty within walking distance of my shed. That is where you will find balance. And I will forever live in your debt. Time is short.

___________________________

For Re-Dibterative Consplipterklation.

 

______________________________-

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).

____________________________