A Quasi-Limerick for Social Media Influencers and a Particular Subset of Hypothetically Existing Entities.

__________________________________________________________

MENTOR'S DESPAIR LEAGUE.

It was when I started imagining 
an argument that we never had: 

you would avert your eyes 
as I re-stated my case. 

 There could be a scurrying 
in mid-peripheral distance.

 A seeming 'plot' was averted, 
by whom it is no longer clear.

All indications would 
remain inconclusive.

 We never believed in shielding you 
or your associates
 from the avalanche 
of modifications.

 A target will loom as 
gauze to a 'wicked one'.

 Stealth is indicated 
by your various refusals.

At times we pack in vain,
 only to find egress denied.

 (Stand up and feign wonderment.) 

We will cheapen this 
when it suits us, 

any assumption in repair 
sucks appropriate fluid.

Gashes threaten to reappear for naught,
 chunks to willing players.

Sides of Side.

Model Pharaoh.

Trips of Chuck. 

What Escapade?

You cannot hold the two pieces of string which will 

insure my silence while at the same time apportioning 

blame, not without an immoderate serving of bile paving 

the way toward a New Rational Pricing Era. A 'bang' 

for not more than 'one' buck amounts to a fitting treason 

at lump award time. But, even by the standards of 

Bud Collier, this night of trembling shall not amount to  

'a thing in itself' and be cast aside like so many piles afore it. 

And the table there? You know the one I mean?

If we should decide to 'not be like that', 

then on the day of that decision, while 

rising to inflate the false carton, then you, 

without either smiling or snarling, 

might attempt to whisper an unacknowledged 

answer to the question which begs to be forgotten. 

Please excuse me, but it's always a stamp 

of 'trying to', and not so eager in its way, 

the way she told me, but the face I destroyed 

gave it all away, a half-plaster reality 'seniorette' 

with a dual disc sentience to boot,... not that anyone 

should pretend to feel threatened, unless it somehow 

advantages their pseudo-position in the dank tribute 

parody assault window partition.  

        

'Stands to reason .....' 's what I'd say, if only

I were given to that sort of trailblazing escapade.

การบิดเบือนสิ่งที่เกิดขึ้นของสื่อต่างประเทศ

Try this one on for size: two coats of ermine suntan quenchers. Don't lie; that's the source of much misery. Beaming the squeamish wheel won't require an ounce of trouble. The day this plea ended was longer than I or any of the others would have ever imagined. Who deals on Dad's former land holdings? Does anyone have a clue as to the source of Dan's bad temper tantrums? That wig looks like shit!! The bees are definitely working their way back inside, and while I've got nothing against bees,(indeed actively appreciate their flower-fucking fun) still this incessant buzzing revives some best-left-forgotten memories. Anyway I assume that everyone has received the 'crust' memorandum and trust that all appropriate responses will ensue.

 

Ah yes, my friend, now THAT reminds me (and the committee) of the 'old' days!! Wind, deerskins, Buck Owens headlamps. Gay helicopter leagues, leaping the flames in rust-only tapered-back delights, coming to tune with tit-clamps a-ready. But I seriously doubt that tub o' shit could sing by itself even IN a cab!! No numbers on the side don't mean shit in 'this' part of town. Garnering a steady stream of abuse as is my wont only reinforced in me a stale grade of duff (if you catch my 'drift'). When those boys put the candy under the shield I thought of my own steadily increasing faintng spells. Now it seems Master Boy feels himself adept at coping with falls. Pardon my French but, Where's the mayonnaise? 

Oh, I'm so sorry to report I've got no idea about that dad-gummed Mexicano holiday. But I will say this: (now just what the heck was I going to say anyway?)Oh well, easy come, easy does it, hold tight, hold tight, ...............got some seafood, mama. Turtles and cheese, you mind if I sneeze? And what if seeing the mistakes I've made makes my eyes water? Dear old dear, boy that old boy, caught up as he was in a 'blue flame special', turns to face the music that we can't begin to read. "Requires some jaws", is what he snapped at me (implying, of course that I had none). And now here I am, slumped over, deal broken, face swollen, veins collapsed. Eye for a day, and not a day too late. Could you even begin to account for the sudden pick-up in activity? Grown up people under a bed, minding planners all the way out of town. Buckle up, frown over, and we still get thrown for a loop. Whose weakened condition? Which sore-headed loser? How many more pustules of destiny? 

ᡚ쵕鱖鲍疓ᎉƐ

Trees. Sentries. Schlemazel-Tov.

_____________________________

Our Effort To 'Capture the High Ground'.

It has been calculated by our friend, Josh Edmonds, that the project shouldn't take beyond Wednesday at the earliest  in order to keep pace , as Team Darby requires. Hasn't it ever received notice  as per some token individual in the upstairs compartment, that by the bygone flap, the investigation we ordered might come to naught, even without our commanding presence in the life of the Great City Underneath (GCU)? Appalled as some were, should it ever become necessary to cut ties, then by all means, we shall not hesitate for nary a moment, as our obligations will be shattered by Owens' Weaponized Dust (OWD).

She tells one and all that 'it's a calling', and then flips her bangs subtly in a way calculated to instill fear in the prototypical uninvolved observer. It will still be a day when all is finished, too bold for a light jacket, but you may not, even now, release your spindly ass for inspection by our trusted partners. The involvement  is expected to grow, metastasize in a way, if 'measures' are not taken, approved and then finally discarded in a ditch in Fremont.

Were it ever the prerogative of the bland helpmates to which we've grown accustomed, then any old 'snag' would do, but for the oily residue which even now has a tendency to disfigure my open place in one of the three blisters I've told you about. Could you possibly inquire as to the Gem Opioid Touch Console installed over a person's objection, and despite a 'takings clause' to douse a flame by house?

Open Letter

This is an open letter to the person 
who visited my hospital room on April 3rd 1978. 
You entered my room at about 12:30 PM. 
You wore a sky-blue cheesecloth chemise. 
This is what you said: 
"There are men waiting downstairs. 
They have mentioned a name to me. Now you know." 

 

This is where you started to go wrong. The sad truth is, this wasn't the first time. I had been alerted prior to your visit that it might come to this, but your bluntness was received not without the lack of an absence of forethought. It occurs to me now that  the original arrangement is strangely moot, even fraught as it was with all manner of problems. 

 Don't let me get away from the point, which was, in a word, pundip. You have long been aware of  my severe allergic reaction to this noxious excretion of the Blue Trepin species of subterranean killer moth. You were warned in a letter dated July 12, 1965 that a visit by a man named Jervis Pitkold to a medium sized Midwestern city during the previous year would result in a pissing contest, the likes of which haven't been seen before or since. Your persistence in the years since then has provided a not immoderately inspiring example to those from 'the Group' who continue to hold aloft the ideals and principals that I now (with very good reason) disdain. 

 I have come forward to present these details in a public forum now because I believe any influence that can be exerted from the larger community can only accrue to the benefit of certain lamebrains in high places whose goodwill will be sorely needed in the struggle on Dilner-Wibbitz.


Thank you.

Sincerely,

     Darlane Crutzfeld

Just Another Third-Party Review Process.

Perry and Milba grew out of being two of Hanzi's closest friends 

in the interim of six feeling-states induced by the sophisticated placement 

of colored shapes (of one or more cloned varieties) on the back-most range 

of 'fear-desonde' up to and through fourth tier of sleep decision process markers. 

A never occurring pen loss segment sparks a response, with not much of a cover 

from which to take aim, the light of the lingering odor puff engulfs a freeze 

at nine and one half milliseconds past the go-throat nodule casting a prime gore 

encasement scenario.

What two widows have brought into the room, which I last 

painted over the the weekend, is unlikely to be detected as the Official 

strikes us as without ideas, even 'green' ones. But by now, any drill that 

could have ever been considered to have started, is but a few moments from 

complete depletion.  We are not the party of one who absconded with that 

distressed, non-stuffed toy chimeric rare bit, the one you praised. A slanting 

blade can aid the effort, even in hands deemed 'wrong' during a 

third-party review process.

It may be an insistence on 'it' scale growth that initially generates 

a slip-tide of lame followership, and a barely mute reminder that our 

'dear ones' depend on tongue for plow, and hardly ever the other way 

around, through, beneath and/or within. Can't you see this? We perceive not, 

but our gate is secure, if withered. 

Sonic Instantiation Formula 735-X

Chuck Wayne's Bidet

The "Why Toby?" treatment was in effect and gaining ground 

by the hour, but it was all I could do to remain seated in a 

sanctified posture within the alcove that (even now) is strewn 

and strewn again with a daffer's chrome-call 'pair o' twos', 

and we are officially needled. The skap and the skup of it 

almost never protrude without a wall's light for guidance 

and delay. This paid Gnosis crap is bent and befellowed, 

but only a last one of my marshwillows is expected 

to enjoin keeping a Trojan frog for many a curtain's ugly shadow.

A chair that you coveted might fade under my call, 

if by that we indicate proling by (the) God's stolen wig. 

White could never be a conversation starter after slate 

is picked for Final Option Four. You who will not arise 

with a smiting intention, are scheduled to accost and 

victimize (in a decidedly obtuse manner) the person 

who poses as 'tree helican' and departs as huffy expert, 

trial exploiter, Jane Wilson wrangler-er (and more) et al.

The gift, we are pleased to learn, is merely a decayed 

branch recovered from a(nother) 'grassy knoll', one we 

paid so dearly for in the hour of departure, a ring-code 

our only method of fraud detection to seep peace unto 

the corporate governance trap kids' faces. Never more 

so than when she backs into an ornament of her own 

devisement. Even disheveled, she keeps an atomic clock 

as a 'poison pill' in Chuck Wayne's bidet.

☺☻♥♦♣♠•◘○◙♂♀♪♫☼►◄↕‼¶§↨↑↓→←∟↔▲▼ 

A Bold and Timely Declaration.

Someone has got to say what needs saying. I refuse
to take any responsibility for what I am about to state.
It does not reflect the opinions, values, ethics or moral
stance of any known individual. Nor does it speak to the
struggles of a generation at war with itself. It does not
pretend to offer any societal palliatives or point to a way
to purge oneself of the most unsightly mental elements.
It only seeks provide a slim ray of hope in the midst of a
general dullness circling the head of an as yet unknowable
entity.

Do you 'get' what I am saying? Has it even partly 

penetrated your overall obtusion? I doubt it. 

But then what do I know? Not much, according to
some. Slightly more than that, according to others

Those others are smirking behind buildings

even as I write this. At least that's what I assume

to be the case based on my own admittedly

limited experience. 

There you have it: a total and thoroughgoing summation 

of my position on this timely matter. A depth-charge 

of erudition in a fetid swamp of rancid speculation. A clarion 

call for those whose orbit of concern encompasses not only 

the squeals of puerile young runts but also the resigned sighs 

of the recently embarrassed. Know what I mean?

The Seventeen Intangibles

A peak and we are light, in the not-so-old sense, if we consider it done. But not out, or so very pleasing, as beheld, without the benefit of 'strang theorum' and two, a needle which braces the person's left ankle around a champ of the mildest relations. Two trophies alight with pleasingness, will be given withour a straight toned oafish bondage scenario and not three or four moments later he attempts a delay,.. two coffees fold and the sip displays the surface, a tension not to weep, Ascended Masters and all, to a pill which gives a somewhat puny deficit reduction strategy into Golden Mouth, but we're out anyway, what could she not tell me?  What's with the braids and a call-not-call game tips out the cane, slipping stealthily to a moth's fevered tickle, you a possum, me an oat-tard, her a fastizist, but the all and the many treat kites like so many spunkering testy road-mash high-tall zingers. 

E. Zheffer and M. Rontklib have resisted the Seventeen Intangibles in a dullness of time with as many esprant, which is symptomatic of the port and galley set at their most infantile. We have yet to schedule an announcement detailing the particulars of their fraud and deceit. For the first time in as many years the Name has been retrieved and examined, found to yield a gray tint during Throat Levels four and above. Those who will not question the judgment of Board Two may find themselves excluded by decree of Super Ten Oxberg, as dispiriting as that may end up being, for now at least we will hold you, or we may hold off, or maybe even over, when 'things' are right, and a typical over-eater's nuisance scale is proven less correct once again, but then you and your not-so-shy associate are branded 'thieves-in-the-night' and let go of, just as we promised. It's told as one, I will behave as multiples of five. The creep of you never even once wonders less than five, neatly stacked, though unpolished, which does not fail to 'lift my bonnet',.. and you call yourself a 'C_____ S_____ B____'! HA!  

Simple, Easy-to-Follow Instructions:

Commit this to memory. You will be asked no questions. 

Not one person will evince even the mildest curiosity 

as to the nature of this exchange. 

This is not intended to arouse any suspicion on your part. 

You are to remain comatose. Any miscalculations will be rendered moot.

It's how we want it. You know, like the old days. 

When we were two 'young runts in love'. 

Back before we learned to forget to smile.

But that was then. And this is now. 

I'm just not sure I know why I want to continue 

to look ahead on why I can't seem to forget 

if I've mentioned this before.

 

But let's leave all that behind. And move ahead. 

Accompanied by that 'giant sucking sound', 

we will careen about with panache and pistols, 

knocking things over with not one iota of concern. 

But then you knew that. Even before I thought it. 

Even before my Uncle Joe learned to drive. 

Why should this surprise either of us? 

Because I said so. That's why. 

No argument. No debate. No nothing. Nada. Nil. Nyet. 

It's over. For real. Goodnight, Gummy... 

Maybe Not . . ....

A stalled proposition that leaked out of the proceedings, might possibly engender a quick refusal to begin the adjustment process in earnest, barring some non-official pronouncement which would crater the talking points of any functionary this side of Tony Perkins' laughably noxious process of individuation. You know the drill; like everyone is sure to have seen, some folks in our division are readying themselves for the Scope of Knowledge, an endurance forecast of unvarying ennui.

But yet what thrill is said to have been felt, not in the Outer Grands, no, but one in particular catches my notice: it happens to be a sinkular rare tone chit, you've probably seen the kind I mean. Or, if not, we will exhibit it in a solid way throughout the Summer of Pain at affordable prices wherever felt imitates a coffee rind, plastic over shadow, and the one we kill will always, or once in a tardy period, slap a whole lot of purses in our face for inspection. The 'Jim defense' isn't funny anymore, sometimes it still leaks sideways like  stolen blank tidings of feet.

What a stain! she thought,... No strain at all! he volunteered. I sneered at the both of them. They remind me of the Pulse Nightclub shooting, in a weird kind of way. Can't put my finger on it, and wouldn't even if I could, so loathe am I to betray my true motives at this time of year, am I right? Could be, but maybe not. 

The Snarkers' Homage

Ong kloating, ong fistules, ong noster flid snay. 

Kheem Plosious uk flowshtus sta tare 'Du Fay'. 

 Postle unt krillage fek snarkers' homage

a window of naders fade quicker than Oz. 

With seating for twenty and nary a clue, 

   don't plead your decision, don't lift weights, too. 

With one for the circuit decrying the smoke,

    it's time to imbibe, the joke's in the croak. 

Circles of muddy, vessels of gin,

      I plead to the Virgin, "Don't eat the Pin!!" 

Acceptability Quotient: ZERO (!)

The task which a solid base kremper enables 

will not now or ever be 'news' in the old sense 

of the word. But bearing in mind the seven tips 

to encapsulation which were memorized immediately 

before this family approached the horizon, 

is glue to be applied more or less rigorously 

with a mild enthusiasm bleeding into a desultory 

mania of parched Mendel Shapes in a ground 

without a sealed crank operator endgame.

You tell the Pace Team that likewise the framed teaching 

document will be all that's needed to take a fog state to 

random plus. You, a bit more chipper than necessary, 

have apparently subscribed to the issue in Month 5, 

thereby avoiding any mention of the game to leak 

my positive test results. This cannot be tolerated, at least 

while Fort Jackson is at Alert Status Hiram Gumby. 

Check this in the box labeled 'Spring Fob Nolan' 

and you might not be awarded the spastic 

cold brown acceptability quotient while 

you pretend to sleep in my West Coast slippers.

Planning Stage Alterations

______________________________________________________

Letter to Sandy

Dear Sandy,

There seem to be some missing items and we're afraid Robert may know something that he's not telling us. Would you and Dan see if Mrs. Wilburtson got that thing scraped off, yet? There's got to be some danger in it, or Jimmy's out of there like a flash. Which is why I'm planning on asking you to come early next week, or risk detachment.

On a lighter note, I'm thrilled to tell you the new fixtures are finally working out. What a relief!! But don't go getting a big head or anything, because we really don't believe we're out of the woods, yet, by any stretch! It finally came to me after your third suicide attempt, that you weren't kidding after all. But that's all spilled milk under the bridge, now, and we couldn't be happier with the way Paul and Uncle Lou have adapted to life underground.


Jewel-Ann asks if the colors you mentioned will be in the final set. Please don't disappoint her with another 'vanishing envelope' gambit!! Lord knows the smudge pots will be working overtime tomorrow as the vets distribute whistles. This only raises new concerns for the twins' safety, especially in view of Kenneth's skin condition. Listen, you've got the absolute maximum parcel allotment, and not a lot is going to change until a certain "Mr. Someone" decides to come down off his high horse and smell the dead switches, so to speak!!

All of which, of course, raises a new can of worms, as you are well aware. As you may have guessed, I've chewed my fingers to the bone covering for you (not to mention Renaldo and Chris!!). And quite frankly, we think you may just have worn out your welcome in Trexlertown. They're starting to wonder about your rather vague gestures. And if I didn't know you as I do, I would have to believe you'd return home to find half your wardrobe stolen, if you get my drift!!


So now it's your move and we advise you to carefully weigh all options. We know it would really be a load off your mind if you agreed to enroll in the Modification Seminar. All of us on the Team have faith that you're ready for the Final Step. Don't disappoint us. That would be highly inconvenient, to say the least! Why not take a few moments and smoke a cigarette, gaze into a dark corner and smile within. Think of Reneé. Abjure any notion of retrenchment. Luncheon meat.

Your Co-worker,
Felicia

Most Recent Therapy Session: Please Read on a 'Need-to-Know' Basis Only.

The part where you and your action-oriented idea 

come full circle, and the plate is fissured as or about 

the notion of a ring-toss, which startled Hollywood 

in all the right places. The bit where a no-show appears 

to be the proper tactic, only recedes in time as the Kings 

banter, but refuse to delay one or more call-out moments 

in either grief or delight. The pant-leg which aroused not 

a little suspicion will be delved into during my therapy 

session. The professional is not aware that I do my last 

cuff while the twilight portion of the mess is reflected 

in the guise of sold-out ponies with just a touch of 'the boo'. 

You and I both are constructed of sterner stuff which 

may stain any and all neo-plasmic surfaces, even if 

the guilt is 'on high' and your stench rifles my 

beard with a full-on starch-suit particularity.

In one or two more moments we might fail to designate 

a 'doer-of-record' and take any person's filth for a prize 

at one gallon per second or what may pass as the going rate. 

She seems not-nice enough, though one will say, 

(in a candid moment) 

that the stress is stress-free and all our moments 

ring with a management trainee's odor, 

but your wisp is flailing, a tail too grave 

and a lung-betty cannot spare the insight. 

A tree you've swallowed, under the false assumption 

that 'one-goes-all', means that Molly Pierce stands 

no chance to keep a prim profile while under a 'no-talk' 

protocol and the firearm secreted within a phony nasal fog-bottom, 

is sure to instantiate a very real nodule control issue, 

more than once if several expert witnesses are not mistaken. 

Could you or the one after, not engage in a cooling manifesto 

or some similar? The braid is NOT QUIET, but the two 

who change shapes do not know that, or I will help them to not 

shiver on contact. It goes that way, and then some of the 

others escape a needle and we're through here, and, 

although it pains me to say it, the name of your version 

is sadly lacking, but the chance to leak a home-builder's 

strategy document is inching closer every single fucking day!