Friday, January 31, 2020

A Crucial Timeline to Aid in a Proper Understanding of One You've Grown to Trust Implicitly.








I've recently been informed by the young trainee occupying the cubicle adjacent to mine at work that the softness of my conception of braille-flavored dough is frankly an insurmountable obstacle to the possibility of our forming a deeply fulfilling homosexual relationship any time soon. On my end this was good news since it allowed me to continue with my plan to stab him in the neck when he wasn't looking. I guess you could say however that this whole plan I was evolving was kind of a joke since the 'knife' would, in fact, be an invisible one that I kept hidden from all but the most important persons in my organizational ambit.





That would include not only Rector Hismer but also Donald Segretti, Juliette O'Boof, Kenneth Winckblad and Dorshet 'Fleet' Mrimset Jr. My association with the aforementioned lowlifes was detailed in a blockbuster investigative exposé that appeared in a serialized format during the terribly humid Summer months of 1991 on Benson News Briefs. My certification was taking forever to come through and this unwanted public attention not only wouldn't help but could actually scotch the whole fucking deal. 'What should I do?' I often wondered. In the end I realized I had no choice but to return to my childhood home and try to retrace the steps that brought me to this very sorry low point in what passes for my so-called existence.





I set out in late December 2013 for Lynchburg, Virginia with exactly sixty one dollars in my wallet and eighty seven cents in my faux leather change purse. As I slowly made my way from the Southeastern quadrant of the Northern section of the Lower Middle West, it occurred to me that I'd forgotten my compass and would have to rely on my sense of smell as well as a moderately appealing length of string that was stashed inside my left shoe for just such an emergency. If I have to strangle one more corrupt State Trooper with my bare hands it'll be too soon. Know what I mean? I'm kind of 'funny' that way, I guess. Do you ever like to play with dolls? 







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Wednesday, January 29, 2020

Two Graphical Text Treatments: Eerily Similar Yet Completely Different. Who Can Say?












ქ𥳻ၺὀɎቇ࿙᎖ᒵ߹ᒖὀ  ߐ▲☢ᓀᒥ▤⌲  ྴ௮Ꮺ




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For more graphical text treatments see:


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Monday, January 27, 2020

A Remarkable Episode Wherein Paralyzed Hands Play a Pivotal Role.







Thinking ahead to the sense of undulating motion that would likely prevail in the dear future, she sighed and wiped a small drop of troublesome fluid from somewhere between her mid-calf and the position she held while watching a mediocre boxing match on PayPerView. It always troubled her late husband Casper Flagella, to give her eyebrow a good pinch with only therapeutic intentions. These were times of 'riling', of course, but a speedy sense of delight still shone through her boxy way of addressing the addled  malcontents  whose continued existence would prove so determinedly troublesome.





After the third episode I gave her the type of 'talking to' that only a feared yet trusted stranger could accomplish. She nodded seductively but I knew it was just one more ruse in a long line of trendy nape-creepening betrayals. Nonetheless I spoke forthrightly (if sporadically), adjusted my tie and set her house on fire. This was where things started to get ugly, but I still had hope. Since my artificial duodenum implant was scheduled for the 3rd of May, there really wasn't any choice.





At about six the following morning I received a call from her estranged third false husband informing me of a crucial document that had survived the blaze. I bit my  lip so as not to blurt out some uncomfortable truths and keep my powder dry, so to speak. The sparks that flew during that frankly ugly exchange were enough to curl the hair of even the most manly of soft-hearted peons. When I think back and try to remember where I was 'coming from' in those days only one thing stands out: the time I gave her a ride to County General and forgot to urinate before leaving. This led to a tricky situation. The perfume I kept in the trunk was of no use since my hands were now officially paralyzed. I remembered that my favorite baseball player, Bobby Murcer, had suffered a stroke in his mid-fifties. Having said that, it's important for me to acknowledge that I've never been a fan of Pete Seeger's folk songs, though I realize he had 'good intentions'. What is it they say about those kind of intentions and road paving technology? You get the idea, or maybe not. Try to come to some decision. It's important. You'll see. 



For anyone who is reading-challenged, this diagram summarizes the entire post.

Saturday, January 25, 2020

Practical Applications of Stamé Theory.









Erminguez Humferschlindk, ca. 1957
Stamé Theory, as first promulgated and developed by Erminguez Humferschlinck, has, as of this year, sent at least seven generations of entouferated germ extension curators to their metaphysical graves without so much as a 'how you do?' to show for their essentially bogus sing-song lavatory field whistles all the live-long day. And it's a damnable shame the way certain folks involved in my custody crisis insist that they (and only they) have any say-so when it comes to the proper way to propel an herbal noise abatement unit to the top of every wingnut's wish lisp while watching their own lips assume a posture of Tribal Pronoun Policy Surrogate in the high noon of our Stan Musial Instructional Biography.





The first dilapidated tablento of our acquaintance, which played such a pivotal role in the original kneeling paper outlining Stamé Theory, is now thought to be misplaced in alternate years, but since Year Zero (as it were) is nearly impossible to identify, what with all the application vendors who have fled the country rather than face the fact of their own metrical dimming process, it's up to you-know-who to finally encase an amber foot in taffeta and  be done with it. And what of it? I mean, do you or those you pretend to represent have any idea what could fail to occur if the lion's share of pad-smeared Etruscan turd rakers decide to go to even the most moderate of lengths without a telling wheeze to blow the whole thing wide open?





Finally, I just want to address the last person who might possibly read this: What moved you in this direction? Was it worth it? Really? Do your pants fit any better? Is there something you'd like to whisper in the dark when you (falsely) believe no one is listening —or even cares? Does this seem like a reasonable way to spend what could be the last six minutes of what passes for a particular zone of existence? Is this the only one you have any right to believe you'll ever know? Oh really? You don't say? Well, I'll be damned. And I mean that literally. Don't go there, girlfriend. But do come here. Got it?



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Wednesday, January 22, 2020

A Brusque, If Circuitous, Denial of My Evasion.







That the darkness of her vestibule shone with an inky black puissance was news to her. In the same way that a bicycle theft cohort could count on the rumblings of an overly bloated Ashkenazi anti-thyroid regime, she would seek to smooth the way for a thrice-sold thwarted mitten intrigue disaster to dismay even the most stoic of geriatric carpetbaggers. But for her efforts, they would rule the roost with an almost fatal lack of ironic impalements. If it were up to me—and it isn't—the lengths to which she would go to retrieve the basic necessities of a two-bit dimestore domesticity would barely equal the scope of an atrophied nullity who pretends to shred every last codicil that I've worked my butt off for the last six years to help see the light of a forgotten day at the beach.





And why, one might inquire, would this fail to sap the confidence of a merry band of foreign fighters who even now are negotiating their way into the hearts and minds of our ultimately tainted thought-leaders in the field of random coincidences? Is it because of a concerted effort at reaping a nonmalignant torsion imbroglio while appearing to knock their pleasing endeavors off the living shelf of tubes? To hazard a guess would be, well, hazardous, and this is not something to be recommended in this, the first year of many to come. The way we intend to subtly gesture with our bare ankles, all the while sincerely groping for the proper way to express a love of mature substances, will light the way for the emergence of a new lost paradigm. Please don't count me out. I didn't evade anything. 



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Tuesday, January 21, 2020

The Time My Dad and Pastor Nickles Were Involved in Some 'Shady Activities'.







Even before she was small her son had spread malicious rumors about her parentage. Before she knew who to strike back at, things went postal and a Negro family at some distance decided to show her a (the) door. It was an oak paneled affair that really brought back memories in a silent, industrial throb. My Dad and Pastor Nickles partnered with a Scottish sock-her mob to distribute Rustoleum cookies on the rheumatism ward at Dale Werpner Memorial. This is where all my comforting memories seem to just go 'poof', but not before they came to a screeching halt. I'm not kidding. 





In the interim we hooted and we scooted, but all our soldiers still fell down in the mud like so many insolent playable functionaries. This isn't what 'the establishment' wants you to believe but if you're smart you'll tell them where they can get off, drug-wise that is.




By the time we stopped playing games our dusty partner had all but geared up for a monster truck event. One in which we were not included, sadly enough. But who's weeping now? One of the furniture boys? No, not really. Try telling this on your next vacation getaway and  see if you'll remain upright. A pony ride maybe? Yeah, right.



 By the way, if you want to know more about the Negro family I mentioned earlier, I can't tell you much (this was before Instagram), except that the Dad was a lumberjack. Anyway, so once we were in the car I decided to ditch my last remaining remedial sock on the Highway outside of Pittsburg, Ontario. When we arrived in Houston my Mom started to make fun of the way leaves looked if you squinted. At the time I thought maybe this was some kind of dirty joke. Now I'm not so sure. There is one thing I am sure about though. And that's the length of a piece of string that I'd kept safe from my brother Philip Gleason. It was yellow. Oh, you wanted to know how long it was? Okay, I'll bite. It was two measly inches/feet/miles. Satisfied? Thank you.





Did you think that would be the end of it? Well, think again, partner. Because. It. Never. Ends.

The end. 


Sunday, January 19, 2020

Inside Details of Our Operation (this doesn't refer to a liver transplant).













We are asking people who are believed to sleep at irregular hours if they'd be willing to submit themselves to a series of mildly terrifying procedures. Our methods are cloaked in secrecy but our motives are pure as the Summer rains. If we choose, a random event of low significance will enable the stragglers to mount a piecemeal defense while gunfire is at an all time minimum. If anyone is heard shouting, that person will be required to submit to a lengthy interrogation process, at the end of which they will be awarded a small dark colored button to do with as they please. It's not often that this kind of thing can be said. And that's because our motto is: Once Clean, Ever Borne!




Clelland Marfew is the person in charge of our operation (this is not about a liver transplant). He was originally discovered hiding inside a locked steamer trunk on the grounds of the old Bilford place, back around '95 I think. After he was awarded the Mayor's Notation he more or less took charge of the whole thing. This is where things start to get 'spooky'. Because, just as soon as my wife had begun lanyard painting lessons, the humidity started to  spike and our patio divan was all but ruined. Clelland approached our daughter Merva with a plan to lure Associate Dean Stanbridge into a pay-for-play scheme involving the Zoning Board's vice counsel. I was to wait in my Ford Explorer SUV with the headlights obscured by vanilla flavored gauze. At the count of three I was to pretend to be sleeping and Merva would make a fake bank deposit while Clelland stood around pretending to amount to nothing.





When all this came out in the papers my wife Beffy not only filed for divorce, but sued for triple damages in the major double digits. I was disgraced and fled to Algeria where I joined Eldridge Cleaver and Timothy Leary in forming a Boy Scout Troop for the local assholes. It did not go well, to say the least. But one thing's for sure: I learned my lesson. And what is that lesson? you might be wondering. Assuming you ever learned to read, I think you can figure that out for yourself. You want me to spell it out for you? I don't think so. Now, if you'll pardon me, I've got multi-colored stuff to take care of. Ta-ta. 



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Friday, January 17, 2020

The Correct Use of a Blunt Echo Tube.








There, but for the correct use of a blunt echo tube, would the final setting for this season's Trobriand Masquerade Fusion to  barely escape recourse in a dated reference to one so boldly knocked. It thrills the adjutant of an eight-fold parsimony luck-field to grow and become equipped to train an ever widening demographic to steer the Ship of Hate in circles of every Oxford-trained archaeologist's fondest deft friendlessness. But the wholesale weaponization of furtive pride now looks like the smartest move in a book of salient whispers. It will get you arrested in a little used mustard supply chain fiasco, but shouldn't mean squat to the shy menacers who rule my ghost out-of-bounds three out of five times. It just isn't fair.





In what's commonly known as a first rate 'shield of breezes', a color-coded evacuation contingency fragment will move only so many statues of  Nelson Riddle to the outskirts of a toneless festival of muted access drivel. Where you shed the patiently ballsy interrupted scope of pills, I see a truth regime taking hold and bounding impudently across lines of blind force. It's the faith we tabulate at ghastly intervals which, at a fierce remove, will insure corpulent Hottentots a place in my expanding Sun. The dream of a misplaced wasp. A song we will hum while no one leaps into the gap of action. Why does it rain?





Our smallest penqule is the merest benefit to become standard, with dating to proceed willfully and trangent fogarties in the plus-size aisle—a notion now lost to the winds of rhyme. What keeps us up at night? Could it be that the answer to that question cuts just a little too close? Or am I being one? If so, don't expect an apology because the frame I live for is just one more livid excuse in a hut like all the others: two fronds, one cabal, and no easements to speak of. While we sit and care for our wand, the troupe of banshees you call 'family' is just now breaking daylight in half with an aplomb gone nuclear. This might prove shattering or may possibly inspire an insolent smattering (of garrulous guffaws?). Where does it say that this is all? Not here. Not ever.



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Wednesday, January 15, 2020

Bumpcake Delirium Consumption.












Mary's morning pinned distal staff will bring about a false dawn. My standard reply is to ape the comfort of goodness, but only if the doing is perchance a chemical channel that one so bored would consider a sidelight to a truth composition. We need to show our willingness to foretell the consumption rate for the local bumpcake delirium. My opportunity cost is frozen at stone one. As a paper will not fold without an application to partially rounded service wonks, then the stirring rendition will behoove our members to flood the zone with asterisk penis on a stick. Why it gels and assumes a lack of shape will go to the basic question of truth in padding.







But whenever salt is discovered in a rarefied tail, whether human or animal, then one thing will never escape the odor of denial, and that is the dream held lightly or not at all. Where does it say that a clue is obstructed if and only if one particular metal bond is loosened with a bracing bonhomie and lerfeya all over the news is a definite no-no? We can park our gadget beneath a wandering patriot's CancerCare Van. But if it seems self defeating to alter the timeline to suit any random participant's sense of propriety, then this deal is worth more than we can chew, and that's putting it mildly. 




Monday, January 13, 2020

The Inherent Risks of Setting Adolescent Nutrition Guidelines.













A drastic pectabhule will only cede 
a finely-breasted oval nicety to claim 
a place within the sole portable non-dual 
seepage enactment to engage a suburban 
musical ensemble. Our rehearsals entail 
proximate jerry-rigged officious struggles 
as benzene offers a respite from the caps 
which will re-ignite a 'fleming' particle 
in our nation of greed.


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The reason I am being held, even as the name I sometimes use is withdrawn, has its own 'rhythm of practice', a virtual semblance of singing. As tools go, it is sometimes the former one who counts, as  a backwarding promise of two so cold as to relieve a fountain of the lies which sustain it. My soul, in serving as its guardianship pragmate, will nonetheless appall the two forlorn owners of one too tall to escape the fog. If, while lifting recisions, it becomes apparent that my involvement in setting adolescent nutrition guidelines will bring a halt to the delegitimized activities of the Northern Trust Façade, then it will have been worth it, whichever 'it' you may mean in this particular case.




We are always one graded highlight away from choosing to trust the insignia under which the battle of wiles is to be fought. Our attention breaks and my permanent retard assumes a likely dominance pastorship to evince a silvery quantum peace-shield with solid berillium cheese accents. Wedded to any particular outcome, we are not. Just choose your first word carefully, since my love is in your brain. And your angst reveals my plan. But this is not the Method of the Pearl, since, if that were the case, then my bed would relive a chalky taste episode from the lower fours. And that would be a simple tragisty. Who's counting? Vanna Minx? 


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Saturday, January 11, 2020

A Bit of Math Followed By a Unique Disquisition.








To plow a random coastal whisper trial for the sole purpose of assuming a position of dread and asperation will become a temporarily jaded thrill-avoiding viscount, perforce a knot of wicker-headed drums. If this seems incomplete, the addition of table-tested, flame revealing oak dinner ware should bring a trifling contentment into all of our solemn deliberative noontime storyboard hosteries.




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We consider ourselves exemplary of the very well known lovers of temperature. The grade that we inhibit will be our own. There are no steady whipping sounds escaping from our capitalized breeding pond. I'll be paying extra close attention to a 'black box' she says I've hidden. Thing is: all my usual hiding places are plum full-out of shock. The trading day is one good time to recall all the numbers and ask ourselves if being willing to say the wrong thing is a virtual ticket to a period of mumbled denials. Why should this scare anyone? Beats me.


Our lines are boldly fictional. If my speech impediment had not garnered the approval of one so unfeeling, then my kind of people should alter the screen of meaning from within a cherished platitude. Some ways are modes of description while the barely audible knocking continues apace, one incongruously colored space at a time. Blame it on the Bossa Nova. If you don't believe this then have I got news for you!




I removed his penis from a water bottle that had been abandoned on the third floor. The quivering had stopped a while back and now all that remained was a stationary terrified bulk. Sent in two by two, the pathetic creatures live for the chance to call some obligatory festering ground home. Preliminary indications are all to the plus side but reining Sandra in is proving to be a task worth shirking. Sure, we'll call you and not think twice about it, because this is the way we do it. Our home is your den. Your pillow is our night light. Her studious attitude is my watered down sense of despair. His ever present obligatory non-committal functionality is her overblown fissured plastic wig. Why can't anyone ask the Breyers whether they won't have another beverage? Is it hidden in their car? Would I know if it wasn't?




Tell me I'm joking and only then will I ask  those who matter about my interest in clogged investment tides. It's a good bet that they will reply the way they always do, with a shrug and a boner. I'll pretend not to notice but that won't fool anyone, not anyone who counts, that is. Count me in and that will be it.


Come at us through every means at your disposal and we might consider wishing you well, in a way that arouses no suspicion, first time, every time. Because this is a plea to the firstborn scion of the triumvirate of punks who (for some weird reason) associate banter with carports. But this time speed is all that matters. It's a tribute to my notional jealousy that whispering my name in a public place will get you drafted into my private security detail to rig the wave of defenestrations all the way to a nasty rag.




And finally, as if all the above failed to trigger the over-compensated nitwits who rule the rest, try this: think of a kind of beam that you may have failed to take into account. No, not a wooden beam but a beam of yummy energized bronchial position sequences. They're (right about now) playing havoc with that 'thing' you call a roof, and by the way, it (the roof, that is) is not the one over your sorry head. It's the other one. The one you never like to think about or it could get you killed, metaphorically though, please be assured. Goodnight. 


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Discourse on a Special Case.

Thursday, January 9, 2020

A Curious Incident (even a trifle 'sketchy', perhaps?) Involving the Norendale Police Department.








The Norendale PD in action.
To the three witnesses who remained after the Norendale PD finished their work, I had only one thing to say. After we agreed on where to place the mounds (two miles behind the cabin), I'd started to get a 'hinky' feeling like my hair was attaching itself to a g-section. We were advised by our employers' trusted nemesis to spare nothing when it came to the last box to place in the abandoned derby factory down the way. My assistant Hefsha decided (much to my chagrin) that a changeable absorbent neophrene Dutch tufter would be enough to insure compliance after the wading pool is drained for the Spring. I uttered a few choice epithets, slid my shants over a bowl and bid each of them goodnight. When I spotted various humdrum personages lounging about, each with an airtick balanced on a stem, I knew my work was far from done.




Where does it say that if even the most fragile cosper exhausts a wording category twerp, then the blending could be expected to endure a Level 5 nuprisant disaster? I'd never heard of this before, though there were hints in the literature. We got to work in the morning and by noon it was all we could do to contain a virtual anthology of lascivious rumors from cratering morale on the base. 





I always strove to embalm six or seven defective artificial pastriatic loosh sempules before my annual hiatus was destroyed. What I didn't take into account was the lengths to which a 'certain somebody' would go in a vain effort to release the guild from an epoxied forlorn future of dust in a bind. Blinded as we tended to be in those days before the widespread adoption of creepy pickton trowels to train retired pilots to heat sand with their eyes alone, it never occurred to any of us (Brad Marshall very much included!) that the only purpose severed from its non-oxydative bottom-feeder would last approximately six and one half seconds before an aortic valve would start fluttering, in a stochastic timing sequence no less!






If, after all the above, anyone continues to doubt whether my teen daughter still turns tricks at the mall on alternate Wednesdays, they can just take their own hat and wear it! As far as I'm concerned, the cordon placement apocalypse is still very much in play and the needy little wankers who can't scrape a bone against a mirror to save their lives are very much not welcome at the Watchword Dinner Parade. This will be enforced via a titanic struggle of 'good'  and 'evil' on one side of a gaping abyss and a mousy, measly, magical breath-control technology on the other. Guess who wins. Go ahead, take a shot. It won't get any better than this, I shit you not!




Tuesday, January 7, 2020

Preliminary Report on 'The Voice'.









The voice comes to her in intervals as unpredictable as roundworms on a covered gate. A prestigious central para-limb cycles in a background thrush but commingling provocatively was ever to be a thing of an all too brief past. The voice's origin at times appears to be a set of antique fan blades recovered from a natural logic pile brought into disgrace one infinitesimal  figment at a rhyming pre-test no-go zone. At other times, seemingly years away in the distance, a rasping chode will appear and now the voice is stilled, but only as foxes traipse to avoid a duet of done and done, no questions muttered, some answers approved.




If we stand back to avoid a tittering offhand theft bargain, the bentument could inspire grieving in couples who stand to benefit (in spades) from a natural insurgency, provided a chafed rim is seen as dodgy in a multiplied external dragnet of psychopomps. This is where, one by three by seven, the blakes who call 'noun' a home are disappointed but preen nonetheless, as even a stipend exfoliates a nursery bondage protocol. From where we sit, it all goes with a fink and a knob; our struggles are wispy, the vein throbs and our home is inundated, profoundly so, by plorticated milk dotted by floating pictures of food in caves.




But if this is to be the beginning, then what is to be the shortest bone fragment to isolate its end in the flesh-worshipping parallels to life in a wasp? Your slotted membrane is at rest while a shrill reply code is effected by the one and only sloping tractate ploy. Be willing to adjourn this semi-conscious nematode to an unused room in your dream-house of the future. It will suit all who crave a position in time to lurk with barely oscillating gristle. And this is why you love her, mysterious voices or not. Grant a slip. Please and thank you. Ya velk!   



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Sunday, January 5, 2020

Recently I've Been Asked About The Mesmeric Potentials of Diatonic Fog: This Is Your Answer!








The mesmeric potentials of diatonic fog: can you (or will you) hear and absorb a soft ringing? It could seem to engage a forlorn cleft to a shape-lifting effort at periodic bontule episodes. Or, alternatively, a nascent escape, as foretold in the Book of Jim, is winnowed through a piecemeal treatment of partial blackout events. If I've read about this while making my way through a ferment of lulls (not lulz), then the false identity I've assumed since my faked birth is just one more blank factor to consider while bearably stunned bishop trainees assume a position marked by the stolid antoplexy of faded distaff shirts.





If the remaining petals exhibit a fluming and our method is of a piece with one of all putative non-traditional folk magic remedies, then it falls to the few who insist on coughing in an abandonded breezeway to engage the striped vessel in a word-power matrix designed to avoid ever vaster non-selection pressures. This will be your cue to cut a bold shape across decades of winsome dross and fluffy imitation numerals. 





Why have our last and best companions in the Crime of Groans appropriated success strategies from the child-free bastions of negative luck bargains? While you  grab for an answer (any answer!) please allow the implications of any lazy reply to sink in deeply and aid you  in applying the dreaded master-flip to the ghost narratives you refuse to interrogate. It may just go part of the way to sealing your deepest ceiling with a waxy raiment the color of oil-flavored goo. And this will be called 'success', try as we might to wish it were not so.   



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