If we had agreed to instantiate a re-taming process with respect to an errant party of jocular pantiewaists, then our adherence to a doctrine, no longer enumerated in plain-spoken down-market demotic, would stand a not very small likelihood of straining on a vein of a tastemaker's turgid imbroglios.
This is where our very balanced feeling profile becomes a no longer crucial factor when considering with which lineament to gird our appetite for candied liver and ossified folio pranks. If, when wandering outside the range of any old stand-fast day-over-day studio jag, a creamy, nephritic (but hardly senescent!), solemn impostor's attempted moment of carping should be enough to hold a team of waders to but a minuscule increase in a shaded dullness that wipes our plane in a beam of wetness.
But when the penitent slips a soldier's desk through a concealed slot in the House of Grades, my grand studio plot is revealed for all to see in a series of purloined manila back-stories. The crease will likely condemn all who function at speed to graze wantonly with a fantasized truculence befitting only the most tractable of splintery supposition weasels. This is where an actively necrotic assailant will hold thirty-one unclad hostages in a donated craft brewery to seek restitution for anonymous testimony in the Hykes Farber foster puppy scandal.
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| The Bendicant at work. |
And now when we hold a pallid force field at bay, our fingers doing double duty with ancient rice crystals, the treatment that is our due is all but certain in this or any other season. The word we give is a grieving widower's ticket to the 'appointment television' of tomorrow. Thus it sits, jangled shafts and all. Your mileage may vary, but not without a change of clothes.
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[Please note: this is the Bendicant's version.]
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