The Person-of-Hair's Surprise Appointment.

Displacement of my emotional body is both deeply unplanned and clearly naputive of my sole choice-point in favor of technically fair treatment. The only jangling which comes from our instinct for defense could translate a prod to the fore without tepid remorse to the delight of a former crony in Western colonial atrocities. 


Where does it say that our fringe belief system is a bond to hold a binding stalled hard-count while the agents of perforation are clearly goners? If ever the evidence I've stolen is recovered in a museum wax shop, then you'll be aware of that by the only person-of-hair's appointment to an Associate Jerkship.


As passionate a defender of the Elder Quid Proctor that I pretend to be, the bonds of planethood are apparently sufficient to endear a former child prosecutor-without-portfolio to the ranks of Esper City's foulest rejectionist cabal. 


During the second blast we noticed that an altered current revived an object of not small interest in our Eastern Field plasmic warp. The bread is a virtual breast of gradual tearing so that only a faint plop is enough to incite an assault on the question of young people's projects. 

For now our line is holding to a fine, firm logic of pain. It should go into listed best practices along with breaking a surface by eyesight alone. This will insure that even as the merely limpid are given great latitude to desert the essentialist project for a glaring impectiment of said person's morning routine, our besting of the sordid Harcourt Retinue is now finally a dead letter by any other name. 

The should bring no joy to our 'side',... if indeed there's still any detectable side worthy of that pathetic designation. Will anyone be surprised if our scaled response is no longer enough to forestall the risk of a failure of talismanic operations to attune our favorite mask to the frequency of a gelled dermic sample gone bad? If no response is forthcoming the lost device is to be deemed both carcinogenic and a dreamable moment (of insult). 

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That One Weird Thing About Joe Sykes (Try not to chortle!!)

Navigating the Jhisterne.

I will take a short (about four minutes) pause before 
I continue with my narration concerning navigating the 
Jhisterne (with or without gloves: in fact the thing about 
the gloves was just sort of a superstition).

Okay, so, just so you know, everything I know and will now tell you about how to both approach and complete the Jhisterne comes to me by way of my friend and mentor Dr Vidnik Chostri, one of the foremost authorities, now deceased. He crossed a line, now erased, and our efforts have cost several generations of persons their time at the table.

The first question that usually comes up is the whole 'glove thing'. People want to know: Gloves, yes or no? I can tell you now definitively that's never really been established one way or the other. A head covering, though, is deemed absolutely essential. Why? Well, the overpowering odor for one. Also at certain times of the year, your very own yammering could disturb what remains of solid materials on site.

Now you'll want to bring a single sheet of brown recording paper with you (preferably unadjusted) to support a fourth charge of mencral stringth if there's a simbering of plaiks by the time you're ready to proceed. This will ensure that your solid approach will be difficult (at best) to tie back any other gentuine ex-parts that could arouse suspicion.

By hour two, it will become obvious whether or not you've bested any prior (if unwilling) efforts on behalf of a master encroachment which should allow everyone in your group (assuming you're not 'going solo') to breathe easy and allow less than optimal strasterkies to withstand the urge to defile a stripe that often appears at this point.

If, by day three, a plea-full whimpering still hasn't been heard, don't worry. All is not lost. It could be you've located a real absence of nests. This is just what you should want, whether you know it or not. Most people will now be tempted to give up. In fact this describes my own sister, and look at what happened to her. Need I say more? (If the answer is 'Yes', please consult Wikipedia or Google; it's all there.)

Anyway, so once you've bested a hill (there's always a hill), you'll find a brittle markering, something like a track handle, and you're to twist it, even force it, and by now you should notice a distinct metallic taste near your third molar. Success is near but please don't become overconfident, it could prove your undoing. A pain in the right leg is a good sign, believe it or not, because as even the esteemed General Strickler acknowledged, a slow and silent breakage of your pre-scene motion can sometimes induce a post-ludic Jhisterne to announce itself in the ways we most cherish.

[Crucial Addendum]

The brain is a funny thing. I once met a guy who attended a meeting in Spain. You might consider applying for a position in the underwater arts. That certificate you bandied about is now worthless, I'm sorry to say. What kind of a yellow field is this? Is it wise to leave before dawn? Could we say with confidence that our time is up? A beginning seems ripe. I'm appalled by the actions of a certain group. I can't say which one or I could get killed. Please stop mumbling. 

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But Won't You?

Non-elastic circles.

Even with the all encompassing aptitudes of the currently undressed, our appreciation for the elasticity of circles becomes an ongoing motif of our relationship to the New Beginning. A stelaziator is wanton. The destruction it seeks is merely a pale eye to the bolder knock-on effect we have learned to expect in what many are calling, not unseriously, a justified prayer with a lightly camp fringe appeal.

Our third son.

As told to a native born stickler for more than merely 'granular' details, the plan is dubious yet filling. Our third son, who was born with a ticking wall between his bruised eyes will tell you so that I don't have to. He is our metric-of-honor for the entire world in a fist. A small amount of breakage can be delayed if we but go to a farther locale and attempt to resist needing yet another cause for which to enact a plan of deceit. Tracing a wide arc could seem bearable but a chip aches a grift in a dime-sized muffin calling your road unbearable. The skin it exciserates. As sand readies the pack of seated, willing harbor scouts, a vat of bigger nisbet-triggers appears to warble a memorably tuneless ditty at my fungicidal wilting dial.

An ossified tracking stem.

Prime considerations include, but are not limited to, the quickening rate of hussfimbers, which encroliate any remaining sard and also the declining urge for wemblance even in a bearably ossified tracking stem. Could it still be a stope? In pendapules, I mean. Who is the brainy puff? This could be strictly jazz territory now but the reading is hazy and no one wants to pull a slug from a flag and groan on, dozing. By rights each individual tone is a brick in a wall of dispersion. But my will to fight remains. The practice of 'nassim-cheboshi' gives a lift to the reliably encranted wan-doan pastel carriers. Is to for but an of or not (a knock, if you won't)?  

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Cosmipreption Efterkplise.

The stezento, with melardi (and triss), will both esclember a knowledge of pammet. A draze usling torpents asté amorfi trenting gos to whelsharang osu, osu, bin sarber. Nof tu wib-ferling gast a choliant hefferzunt a stanzi as trole to perfis my ost is trispont on guer ol druer a fenzhe eskang abri, shen espri, wes effelhylan tun fiklus torfler soppy.

The drisperies will respose the donken six trespanths, but Jolbert Hufminstit abvolves it-krelf to a nold groint werfpont zut hosno a zhen, passy phor schein-dight kroller. A zhor! Noxton wik parstin flates a black-grander asaciated knufe welbun pote, and zells shuk nastry furm-a-bome. Ulsbamshet a krose os shammet, demply hoafardinson ud menkin ad nostle, fek loor, bu femmurg ish to sa-omerliffing, wa bolor kren chokler syl frime.

Entief a souf-doloid ast der bamfet, dra epperlomp soves shi du berlé. Mes forling? A trinkler werpet ust mandefarler ostuun and drelk? You're just a foreign farmer pursuing other lines of work. Try to get that fixed, won't you? 

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My Strategy For Finding a Parking Place.

My daughter, whose name is Tremmy Herkins, has adopted a new way of walking in and out of tough situations while I look for a parking place in my characteristic borderline racist fashion. 


While even the widow who seems related to a sudden onslaught of overdetermined filth is gravely ill in what passes for our survival bunker, my blankety-blank-blank accountant, Jisper Montaigne laughs in a way that most of us in this scene find frankly infuriating.


 I'll have you know I paid good money for afternoon piano instruction even after our patio was destroyed in the war. The list I maintain in the Office of Singular Pertinence has been lost to the vagaries of time well spent on behalf of our secret desire to express a mewling contempt for the Paragons of Puffery while obeying a vile drive toward ultimate deforestation of your ass. 

The previous sentence was just a figure of speech. If you find yourself becoming upset you will leave me no choice but to kidnap your Aunt who suffers from chronic disassociation. The previous sentence was NOT a figure of speech but was a prevarication for which this writer is deeply ashamed. My total recompense is the only option if I wish to maintain my position in the Current Order.

God

O God! Why hast thou forsaken me? May I be granted a final dispensation in these moments before I take my last fetid breath? Is this fate all that I garner after a lifetime of service to the overbearing wingless pupid who shits on my tie during services at First Lutheran during this, our first, Summer of Kindness? What will it take to dissolve Parliament without risking a feral defrag of my eighth drive this year? If you, or anyone you know, or anyone you might have heard about (even third hand) has an answer to any of these questions, please forward them to me at Joliet Federal Correctional Institution, inmate #95-367-D. You won't regret it, unless, of course, you're the kind of person would do such a thing. Regret it, that is. 

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Sonic Insurgency Pen:

The Enigma of Puffmont Towel.

My negligent guardian

It's a house-colored bullet that I dream about in a sullen mood after appropriating the sexual identity cord from the vestibule of a worm-colored apartment complex with the unlikely name of Puffmont Towel. That's right I said 'towel' not 'tower'. Why? Because of a speech impediment I've had since elective surgery at age three and one half seconds. I tried to warn my negligent guardian at the time that this could negatively impact my prospects and lead to a life of disappointing results, especially where my career was concerned. Yet all my warnings were just sloughed off like so much dead rabbit skin on a whorehouse floor. This is not how it's supposed to work in this allegedly enlightened age. But apparently I approached this thing all wrong. 

Do you mind?

My first mistake was to believe that persons in the mold of a signature atrocity freak could be prevailed upon to take all due diligence where the welfare of a Stage 3 psoriasis sufferer was concerned. I now have in my possession a sheaf of documents which prove that Lee Harvey Oswald was the reputed gay love object of General Vernon Walters. Why must we prattle on and on about such pseudiferous minutia? I'll tell you why, or, more properly, I would tell you why if it could be demonstrated beyond any species of doubt that my parents did not die in a Japanese bombing raid in Culver City, California in the years just after World War II. Unfortunately you'll never see the proof because of an innate blindness to the subtler details of existence. This is what inhibits you from escaping from a dead-end training program which (falsely) promised miraculous results in as little as six minutes. These were (and are) six minutes that you'll never get back, however hard you pretend to try. 

Our plan as of now.

We're still not 'getting anywhere', more quickly every day it turns out. Your oath to a Supreme Leader might buy you a month or two but in the end you'll turn out like all the rest: a has-been, a never-were and a won't be. This is something to be discovered while enjoying the cradling motion of a very large cup. The Trio performs at six, nine and twelve. Make sure you're back by dawn or you can forget about ever seeing your device in one piece again. Got it? 

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죢♫I↑[)ȋʅͧ¼ô͔û͔☺͔Ȕ͔ȴôơᗔ⑰ቇህ‶Თሔޑ

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The Wonder of Evaporation.

i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!i!

She is crestfallen! The person who has co-served with her on the charter school advisory committee has died in a boating accident on Lake Erie and now won't be coming to the concert with her as previously arranged. It's kind of a charged situation because without her naive approach to funding an onslaught, a harebrained scheme of this kind might actually work. Now the concert will have to be postponed and we're afraid for her sanity, if not her rarefied sense of taste. The good ones all seem alike but the fear with which the announcements are truncated is enough to make a grown man bleed within.

A playful person of my recollection—this is about six years ago

Two faceless brothers

now—usually wore a brown corduroy shirt in my presence. I know it was only when I was around because I've seen the pictures. They tell quite a story. It concerns what is now a cast of thousands. I'm exaggerating. A few dozen at best. 

This is the underlying setup.

Anyway, about the time I started considering the underlying setup is when I gave myself over, even before I took myself under. The autumn smells were everywhere at that time. I had locked myself into a sleep pattern of rare distinction, never something I'd recommend if one wants what's best for a certain alienated sister-in-crime. 



Our plan required a back-lit staging area. The cue would be a

It can't hurt to try.

whistling coming from the southern portico. The slim chance of success is determined by my salt allergy. You see, I'm connected to a man in an upper floor. He keeps a purloined coat in a hidden refrigerator. I keep my thoughts to myself. My tongue won't wag. A balancing act is introduced while willful disobedience is practiced nightly. You could cut this intrigue with a Boy Scout knife. And my sperm count is for the birds. Well, some certain special kind of birds at least. That's why I'll recline in the Rector's lobby and behold the wonder of evaporation. You care? 

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How I Lost My Cat.

This meme is going bacterial!

People who will follow in footsteps. 

A dream, and not one about a crashing 

cascade, but one about a fairly innocent 

topic, namely candles. They were no 

longer being hidden. The candles, I mean, 

but also the people. What kind of people 

would have been hidden? Maybe the kind 

that some other people don't want to see. 

Even with their eyes shut, they still see these 

(sort of) forbidden people, in their dreams, say. 

SAY IT!

______________________

This is how I always pictured it, until ......

But, look, it won't get any weaker if you fail to take steps. I mean physically. That's right: Physically. Take. Steps. One should start to get used to following instructions. Why is this so difficult? It could very well accrue to your lasting benefit, even when you skew like a baby. A baby squirrel, that is. Admit it. What? That you're lost. And have received a  significant amount of stolen money from a dubious source. A person in a trance is known to drive a 'hard bargain'. But not when the chips are down. Therefore I love you. But not the person you sometimes pretend (without much success) to attempt to resemble.

Why not take a ride?

I've preferred that my TV show (have you seen it?) was viewed by older people, but three weeks ago I lost my cat at a Farmers' Market here in town. The reason I took her (her name is Swerpy) there is because I thought it would be good exposure for a person named Dennis Wallman who has an obsession with cats who are allergic to him. He thinks (for some reason) that it makes him look taller to women of the opposite sex. He's wrong but we don't care. Why? Because we're celibate. And our skirts will tend to flatter the faces of individuals with Down's Syndrome. If you think this is some kind of joke then that makes you an officially 'evil' person. Sick, even. But let's leave this now and move on, shall we?

Meeting with a client.

Good, because I was also feeling a rising frustration level. A level three about, I'd say. I'd say it, that is, if I wanted to garner sympathy. But I'm done with that scene. Been there, done that. It's a load off my puny shoulders and I can't stand the way just one negligible throw-away line can ruin an entirely ordinary occasion. For this we give our lives. For that you pilfer a weaker deed. But forever is not your kind of time zone. So get used to it, or my name isn't Philip X. McCarthy (and it isn't, so there!). 

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This Drifting Moment.

The outskirts of Yinter-Binter®! 

It's come to this, has it? Very well then! 

It's only ever the two-one which gives us 

a start and blanks Perry to one fine boot. 

But you can see that, can't you? It's barely 

one day old but already treats calmly with 

a manner befitting a donor to the fading 

light of guides!

_________________

__________________________

The noodling we do in pairs will proscribe a pulse-quickening threshold to mask the farthest puncture from your prying lies. Of a believer, then, we hold no premise unasked. For, to grasp a seasoned federal enclosure will require three or more nightly soundless playthings to equip a values-neutral recent arrival with our paltry notion of some slight thing-in-mud. But no one is ever not prohibited from tasking its veiled motives to any old plan in the heat. Watch it! It could seep backwards and take your budgets with it into a liminal boundary zone without a sweet corner to conceal your lack of spatial aptitude. One splitting target. Another grim festering ice-cold replay.

The display.

The display features, in no particular order, a psychiatric musticle of some note, the branded colleague of a jubilant ingenue (no fees!), four or more solemn trust totems to achieve a laughing toff and finally (but not without a sour fanfare) the barest hint of a cup in a not-so-negative place. It's a sold-out affair! 

Cheers!

Our wing is in the blade but a fairly bland do-over will be all it takes to escort the neo-reactionary faction to a much resurfaced pawning of lost children to a scope of partial de-retrieval. But this has been asserted too many times already, with little if any result.  This drifting moment is rife with encapsulated mundane shunting palefaces absorbing the last dell but our dormant likely opponent slopes ever forward in search of a branch of cold. 

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My Robbery of a Dutch Heiress.

Some have called me two-faced. Valid?

A stealth campaign. The gingerly way the odors in a vacated home seem to coalesce in my ideation of a removed wisdom plan. Only a partial piece, which is unneeded in any event, to complete a stranger's idea of a person so bold that no story is necessary. The delay of gratitude for the efforts to re-service the Moon. But, solid is as solid does. And the right way is to temperately begrudge a freeing caper at the stroke of three to the manager who once beheld my robbery of a Dutch heiress in tears. Some acted as if this were some sort of 'joke', all the while severing any ties that had held them to a fake agreement in spite of what a rapidly undone legal authority failed to  stop ceasing to invalidate.

This image is not intended to arouse.

A weapon of choice in a situation like this would appear to be a strange merger of pith and strength, a jerbingered soltunov of one who even after the final iteration of my argument will lack the forebearance to reduce dependence of a slipping motion on the appeal of treason to a chosen few. It grows like this. And just like that a fruition of dread is at hand. I'll hand you a key. You will act the part, but fool no one, except possibly an abandoned spouse. All things remain simple while the springs grow ever thicker with pride of lust and a simple lie about the nature of dust. For some reason, native speakers find it difficult to reconcile my pond with a tragic greeting from the Oaf of God.

The proposed seating arrangement.

The 'Jewish question' still resonates in a vapid careening turquoise vase that I've stolen at risk to my now-vanished reputation with respect to the few remaining secreted momentos of our time in a private prison. But, not to worry, because we are still to be held close at hand while we hose the Klan and our Bankers' Trust account is withered but firm, a feathered worm, in fact. But drive you must and arrive you will at our pre-determined point, each hair in its assigned place, no regrets will stage a comeback in Mind-at-Large.

These two guys are still missing,

Some might say this is a valid trick but I'd prefer to piece together an insipid alibi with shards of excavated cornering notions and hide our whimpering secret natures under a wellspring of lost glue. But why the glum face? It's not like we haven't pretended to forestall an eventual downgrade in an atmosphere of cynical disingenuousness at the drop of an abandoned hat before, have we? 

______________________________________

The Missing Brain Tissue Sample.

A repositioned lectern.

You have caused a severe rupture. The sinkage will subside slowly, if at all. A brain tissue sample has gone missing and a file outlining your evident mistrust of bowel regulation is there for all to see in each and every morning release. The crying has only begun but the measurement of same is a well established bone to pick with a higher authority than the slimy bastard you call 'home'.


She has moved heaven and earth to insure that the effects, while dire, are contained to a reasonably vast entity. But that entity, even as it repositions a lectern in a months-long effort at dispersal, is sure to mount an even cooler winsome priest at sunset in an abandoned storefront not far from the base perimeter.

Not that anyone asked, but I am starting to feel more like myself. 

My own perspective, as ever, is ignored to a fare-thee-well. But the tears I shed are not for the many dead, wounded and inconvenienced, as appropriate as that would be, no, they're for the grievous toll in continuity suffered by all who counted on our program in some sort of jaunty way. The hats they used to wear with a seasoned aplomb are now just so many unmentionably drab forlorn practical benefits. The core is just another bomb and you'll tell all the others about our plea to cede viciousness to a vainglorious banking totem before withdrawing to a safer parking facility.

Won't you please join us next Tuesday!

To tell the truth, we don't know how many bitter semi-conscious former officers will enter our offices to rip a plaque from the walls, abolish an ink supply closet and even edge closer to an all-out championship whistling ban. This thing is reverberating nationwide, I tell you, and yet here you sit, scoffing in your middle years at length, not bothering to forecast a return to sanctity for one so clear in a dominion of pricks.

Meanwhile, the breakage suffered in a college town near the reservoir is there for all to see and our appallingly mild gambit of false defeat is likely to fall on deaf ears and scrounge the lot for a surfeit of left-wing tears, not that we would find that anything less than ever-so-slightly distended, like your own fishy hat, at that.

One of several possible self-division schema.

Why do you struggle so? We've given you the latitude to grasp a virtual singing spot and run with it. The triple threat she says I represent is just a tired old formula that he maintains you doubt at your peril even while they task our beloved signature musical theme to a wanton crew of inebriants at the beck and call of the unsightly Devil Woland.


But this is just the beginning even though the actual end was three years, eight months, six days, one hour and seven seconds ago as I write this. See you in court! 

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