A Preliminary Verdict on the Wellness of 'Things'.

High Peckrelferd payments, considered in isolation, don't constitute, in and of themselves, any sort of problem when seen in the context of an object-oriented facial repulsion plague as an announcement is sure to be made in a timely, if incomplete manner. The winning ploy accrues to a native-born mini-fur magnate's Princeton graduate daughter and her fetid claque of social-influencer busybodies. When the boyfriend made like a gunrunning closet dyke at pains to adjust nightly feedings to a once per annum atrocity prank, then we knew we'd had just about enough. After I buried his Father in a hole the diameter of an analgesic toothpick and scraped his dyslexic adoptive Mother off the dining room floor, my nose ran like a two-bit carnal opera fanatic and my pet hound Trophie took to the place like rice on a fly. All the while I was keeping company with the likes of Dirty Joe and Icepick Lou, the ghostwriters of my upcoming memoir, to be published by Random House and scheduled for an early Fall 2021 release.

When I came to in a laundromat the size of a '50s bowling emporium, it was plain that the only viable alternative was to re-scale my wafer intake regime and lead a 'horse of a different color' to a vat of liquid by any other name. I was down to my last pair of socks and it looked like my appearance at the Stonefield High School fifty year reunion would be in some doubt. I knew if I booted up the Parker Towel Jet and made a good faith effort to seem less harmful than your average bond ghoul, then our one-size-fits-all approach stood an increasingly slight chance of doing the trick. 

What made me decide to come clean was my selection as Pound Caffernet of the Year. No one will be held to account. To rip an ulterior fabric with the wrong end of a brick is our exit strategy of choice when hypoxied spandrels are in the mix. If my alienated cousin could see me now she'd have a fit. There's a medical name for what she has. The last time I tried to pronounce it, tooth decay was the inevitable result. A pony named Roger is the last organic being to justifiably win the trust of this very sad generation. Beyond that it's all dots and squibs, peners and ronads. You know the drill. Give it a break. My name squeaks Jesus. Now we can jocky for a position in digital marketing. The day is almost here. The pride you feel is practically infectious. Now we can relax. All is well. No it isn't.  

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A Timely Summary of the Current Situation.

As I've mentioned more than once, the situation in which we find ourselves, while not unprecedented, is somewhat unusual especially in a year, like this one, when the effort required to maintain a grip on likely outcomes is a grotesque undertaking. When my crew chief was confronted on the second of February at about 3:16 AM at the Shaker Heights Billiard Hall by a 'gentleman' sporting a classic Van Dyke and a dyed lime green widow's peak, he was at a loss as to the proper way to respond to what can only be regarded as a vile incitement to civic unrest in our time. He walked calmly to his wife's automobile, since his own car was in the shop for a transmission repair. When I was notified by Detective Osmer Dunphy later that morning, it was all I could do to not laugh till I cried, so ridiculous was what came out of the Detective's mouth. Since it was a telephone conversation, the objects emitted by his mouth became known to me only later via a third party review process that most would regard as a waste of time at best.

It was with a barely concealed composure that I bristled at the suggestion that either I or my people were responsible for the atrocious summaries of a series of false reports circulated widely in the gutter press. If anyone had notified me, whether by email or text message, that a seemingly trivial event during prime viewing hours would lead to a catastrophic cascade of unenviable emotions, I would have exercised all due diligence and harbored a wrongly convicted felon all of whose hair had turned white with stress. 


Due to a high fat diet and a restriction placed on allowable sound profiles, I believe it's only in the best interests of society-at-large to forgo a barely digestible hourly supplement in the slack hour just before dawn, at least as fishing season winds down. What is a person to do who's had a reputation to defend and a sustaining partnership to avoid, if a locally sourced sourdough bread scandal rears it ugly head and the best and brightest are typically blamed for a plan gone up in smoke? 

 In fact, if you yourself do still smoke, we have a plan for you. It involves a negative reinforcement  regime, and we're quite sure you won't like what we've found out about your early years. Everything is still safe but not for long. As much as we will try to stand athwart the tides of history and shout 'Stop!', the ultimate dénoument does not appear to be in doubt. The comb you credit with saving your remaining hair is evidence in a sensational wireless fraud case in which not less than forty five of your inelegant neighbors are implicated. There's a name that sounds like the one you wish you had. It's only by the grace of God that you haven't been approached yet. What's keeping you awake at night?, is what we want to know. Try to have it on my desk by tomorrow morning. I'll do what I can. I can't do anything. Why? Because I'm paralyzed from the eyelids down, as if you didn't know. Don't play stupid, you moron! 

Look, I've got to go. My wife is waiting in a bar for a Yugoslavian diplomat to lose his cookies. Then she'll make her move. It's the only thing that will save her. That and her oceanography degree. And her monogrammed handkerchief collection. And her sense of 'the unusual'.  And the colorful way she talks about the Living God. That gets 'em every time. If only I'd known her before I went to prison. That would have been sweet! 

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This Might Seem Like a 'Cry for Help' Of Sorts, But Please, Don't Kid Yourself, Okay?

The assemblage point for the next meeting of our Slender Persons' Colloquy seems like a risky location in light of recent talking points bandied about before being thrown within a manifold of terrified box-lovers. It was a run-down—even rickety—soda fountain operated at a loss by one of the more perverse chapters of the Sisters of Mercy it's been my duty to investigate, prosecute and destroy. Why would a person at the height of his career, like my cousin Dumont Pletzner, hold himself to a higher standard than one in seven apparently craven goat herders that are observed on hillsides the Nation over, beguiling indigent pipecleaner salespersons with promises of sugary stapler-shaped, nutrition-free, day-old baked goods?

As I told the Lieutenant just prior to sodomizing him, if one in four convicted felons could be forced at gunpoint to obfuscate their tendency to re-offend, then we might just have something there! Endowed as the least among us seems to be with convex toroidal energy matrices, it could possibly constitute a turning point of sorts, as some have averred in sworn statements issued in conjunction with the annual Janitorial Mating Spree. If there's one more peep out of the domesticated nincompoop who lords it over modestly talented vocalists in the Rahway, New Jersey Trail Partners Brigade, then I'll refuse to cede my spot in a burgeoning scene of hairsplitting abominations in this version of existence.

My own morning ritual consists (in part) in a toast throwing melée with my adopted son Ike Jr. He's a kid known throughout the carpet cleaning community for his preternaturally viscous nocturnal emissions and his advanced expertise in lead-lined solinoid repair. Just a 'chip off the old block' I guess! Why has this become common knowledge in just the last three weeks or so? Is it because of the rumors making the rounds in the court of public opinion? If I were to find that a particular type of substance is germane to the peculiar case of President George Trump, would this aid me in finally gaining access to files in the Jeanette Parker investigation? From now on we will hold ourselves to a standard of boldness not long seen in the well deserved infamy to which we've become (sadly) accustomed. This has got to stop. Please help me find my daughter. She's allergic to string. Thanks. 

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Sonic Harbolig.

A Set of Basic Facts Which Imbibe Reticulated Blasphemy.

Each one of the forty-seven Pavillia which scattered, seemingly at random, around the grounds, was dedicated to a color, an ethnic cuisine, an alphabet letter, a prime integer and a de-listed Patron Saint. The rationale for the way people cheer, even with no enthusiasm, would strike a man of my age as paltry at best. With the Luden Family finally at rest in the Vestibule of Honor, my hair regained its unkempt, yet thrilling aspect. Someone will stun various police officers with their bold assertions, I'm afraid. But that's not all I'm afraid of. What do you call those things again? A trial-sized piece of equipment?

While I ducked out for a few moments to grab some snacks for the youngest of our kids, my family struggled to get the attention of a trio of regular Joes as they described their ultimately failed attempts to defeat a modestly tricky tornado. I hadn't been back to the office in weeks, but I knew that my dark-haired colleague was threatening to expose his secretary to a rare—if irresistible and expensive—eau de toilette to win her everlasting ardor. This is not how the game is played, and I told him as much, three times in fact. After I arranged for his younger brother's canoe instructor to be fake-kidnapped in Southern Mexico, I felt the time was finally right to ask my wife if she'd be interested in participating in the 'swinger's lifestyle' which was all the rage back then. I snuck into the carport in the wee hours one afternoon and noticed a moth the size of a baseball lurking just to the right of the lawnmower. I knew what I had to do, but, as ever, I felt I had no choice but to refuse to do it. My entire life was on the line. You would too if it weren't for the way you smell.

Since I've dedicated my life to exposing the coming generations to the advantages of mastering astounding card tricks, the skin on my fingers was no longer able to grip playing cards. If anyone notices Dick and Judy Parnell escaping the backyard pen, they should say something. They should probably say whatever it is in a kind of loud voice or they might not be heard above the din. My in-laws are in town and they're kind of 'ethnic', that is to say, loud and liable to upset persons of a sort that I once was. Some still are. You know the type I mean, right? Boring. Resentful. Apoplectic. In denial. Atrociously coiffed. Unbendably reactionary. Apparently bald. Toothless and vain. Hyperbolic and prim. Unsecured and naive. Always 'in the game' but NEVER 'in the know'. You've met these people. Or at least some folks who can't help themselves from pretending to resemble them. You have my deepest respect.  You'll need it. In spades. Please stop clearing your throat or you'll be asked to leave. This is no joke. Just kidding. 

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Yet Another Reason to Remain Calm.

A patient has informed me that he will withdraw from our agreement. Even so, as I preserve an irreplaceable scrap of paper from his forebear's estate, there's a subtle tickling sensation curling about my tongue and the tissue specimen has sprouted a rare and invaluable fungal treat in a now discarded refrigerator that I keep on the property, mostly just to scare away the kids at this time of year. Formerly, if I had driven straight through to Columbus, Ohio, just to get my 'head in the game', I'd have submitted a motion to the Touchstone Board detailing my involvement in the assassination of the Notorious B.I.G. This was to be my veritable 'Jupiter moment', but during the final installment of our show I suffered a near fatal brain aneurysm while I escorted a Lesbian psychologist on a tour of Malta and greeted the day as if it had just begun.

As my wife's condition worsened, I approached Coach Donohue, wondering if this time would be like all the others. He would feign a deep-seated fear of foreign made metallic objects and I would let on that I knew better. The whole situation would end in a draw. But the sad fact was (and is), I couldn't draw my way out of a wet paper bag. One time when I was still in training a friend misplaced a desk lamp in a warehouse that I was no longer renting for my creepy art projects. We were on the cusp of a magnificent trade agreement but no one could seem to figure out just how our codicils would be abrogated. For that, most folks would call in a professional. But that's now how the game was played in that era, at least not in Southeastern quadrant of the Northern Midwest. There's one thing I was sure of, though, and that's that everything was 'up for grabs'  in a way which leaves most folks with an uncomfortable taste in the back of their throats.

If ever there was a need for lozenges, this was it. Why was I sweating so much when all I had to do was ask a girl if she wanted to get married? Even though I'd only seen her picture in a magazine I picked up at the dentist's office, I felt sure my time had come. Turns out it had gone. Where, you ask? Right up my alley, that's where! 

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Being the Account of an Event Which Should Put Most Persons at Ease.

The sky blue suede Norlorky was placed with distant relatives in a mis-identified time zone while the staff and I struggled to free up the space required without upsetting Monday's planned false flag psychological operation ('psy-op'). That Summer I had worn my special tweed bindings and my niece Dwelebra donned her favourite (now forbidden) vole-fur lined surgical mask for what seemed like hours (in reality days made of seconds) as we waited for an appearance on the raised screen, iced coffee in hand, of the Final Key. There was a general bonhomie and a remarkable lack of piffle, which helped ingratiate the Team with an ignoble lumber executive accused of first degree espanticide by the Government of Puerto Vallarta, Virginia.

It seemed only minutes before the cold, hard truth of ontological granularity produced in us the now quite common sensation of mild abdominal upset. With visions of future paydays on the Moon now just so many ablated dust-ponies, it fell to me to break the news of the Team's abandonment, even while seated on specially constructed ergonomic prick cushions. It took all I had but I got through it without bursting and felt myself to be the better man for it. The salient point however is that I WASN'T for it. In fact I was actively fighting against it, just as I had every day for the previous thirty-three and seven ninths months. Look, I hope that one day when someone reads these off-the-cuff jottings, it's clear that I've sought to clear my name in all but 'name' only, from one end of this so-called 'country' to the other and had what can only be described as a rough go of it even as I reaped a windfall formerly unheard of in sententious betrayals of this kind.

In the event of my premature suffocation at the hands of a shadowy cabal of midnight Child Prosecutors, my only wish, in these troubled times, is to feed a bank of Formica Felony Desks into the furious flames which even now nip at the heels of the majority of superlatively mediocre roof closet maintenance contractors, their staff and support crew et al, who just show up, day in and day out, approach a hand that never bites, escort a coterie of pre-teen knitting assistants into Court, and just DO THE THING, okay? Could I be any clearer or is this just one more way for me to eat my own brain without even trying, so to speak? 

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Last Autumn's Trip South.

Last Autumn, as I prepared for our annual trip South, I recalled an argument I'd had with my wife (I thought I knew her well back then, but my back was killing me) about the placement of a small tan box containing three Special Edition Bonded Huntson-Froelich fountain pens in the glove compartment of our remaining vehicle, a gray '92 Ford Escort. She had, in fact, sworn that she had put them there, but I had a strong intuition that she was lying. I contacted Major Donald Kehoe's son Jimmy, a brash 32 year old former doily salesman, to have him effectuate a live-wire colting operation on my wife's de-natured alcohol saleman's father, Herman Mackey. If nothing else this might possibly get through to her and we could recover the pens and I could finally get myself on an even keel once again.

By the time I neared the Route 5 Training Facility I was starting to feel dizzy even though I'd read a newspaper just a few hours prior. When my name was called I stumbled to the rear and demanded to know why certain mistakes were made. I had mandated that a surgical assistant would present phony credentials while I would pretend to loiter in an abandoned Recreation Center. The night before my third vasectomy, while I watched the game with one or two recently indicted abductees, it became apparent that all was not lost, even if the three very special pens, in fact, were. So, I screwed up my courage, donned my finest second hand cardigan, walloped a night watchman just for the heck of it, measured our back yard for a proposed patio enhancement abortion, had a drink, read the Bible, got a boner and went to sleep.

The next morning as I watched my soon-to-be former wife (a convicted plargiarist named Deniece Rumson) do her pathetic yoga routine, an idea for evacuating the  non-official cordon near our barn came to me even as my hands seemed somewhat warm. After I called Lou Gosset Jr to inquire about purchasing a mint-green punching bag that he'd put on the market the previous winter, the whole neighborhood became enveloped in a juniper scented icy fog. By lunch I was bushed. After dinner I decided to look into gender reassignment surgery. The following week my accountant's ex-caddy Mark Roper was announced winner of the 'Prick of the Year'  Award by the Ghost Pilot Association. All-in-all, one could say something, but it might be a better strategy to seek to appear as if one is about to say something. Once in a while that's the better course. 

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>

What 'People' Are Saying.

The way I've done business since before the first inhabitants were found to be missing, missing that is, if you didn't look behind a tree with which I've had a somewhat unusual relationship, is based on the French Stellar Branch, fifth edition version. There will be a wandering cleaner cast into a need-based fault stratum and without telling anyone, the tips of which are in actuality illusionary pustules, will drain themselves before I move in for the thrill of it. The load-sharing practiced hereabouts is determined to be the only fair count known inside an individual's car-of-choice. If, while practicing the acting game, and one's fourth science of hat removal wins to an extent unfounded in either law or junk justice, then it's supposed by some in the bidness press to presage a gross rekindling of inappropriate things to say.

And speaking of 'say', the temporary parking attendant who has a habit (so I'm told) of scoffing in my direction while I wince with the best of them, has, of late, become so bold as to say certain phrases known to trigger earthquakes in voluble regions south of the Equine Pulmonary Daylight Brick. This will appear in a book purposely concocted in scientistic lingo to comfort the malign mechanistic materialists who contort the facts to comfort the nihilistic neo-liberal jackbooted jackasses who prance about our contemporary cultural cathedrals like they own the place. Which they do. But not for long. At least not if Wanda Lang has anything to say about it. See, there's that pesky word 'say' again! And if you or anyone else for that matter, had it in them to change just one letter, you'd have something to cut wood into boards. But would you be bored? Could you try to become bored? Or maybe even boring? With a skullfull of facts, fat chance of that!

It's incumbent on us to admit that this is a somewhat risky gambit. A person with whom I once enjoyed a deeply fulfilling sexual relationship is a known purveyor of systematically determinative falsehoods. I am deeply embarrassed to have been put in a position to defend this individual when it seemed that our darkest hour was at hand. If you'd like I'll hand you a paper towel. You probably won't need it but it might come in handy. In case anyone asks, just maintain a staunch dedication to the lie we tricked out to cover up the Living Truth of Wonder. I promise to do my part  to increase industrial output in the third quarter or die trying. Literally, but not seriously. Did I burst anyone's bubble? If so, just take it downtown. You'll see. 

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A New Directive For Culpable Members.

At the risk of having one or more of the new arrivals get the impression that they  might not be up to speed with the way things 'really are', it's important to point out that sometimes if the Jalondzer is set up to speak with an obviously fake foreign accent, some will come to the conclusion that it's for the purpose of calling attention to our woefully out of wack imflurgation ponticrefty. If this were either eight or sixteen years ago, then no one need have worried, but the station has been abandoned for, like, forever and the only persons getting any  younger are those who've arranged for their skin to be in the game but not of it. See where we're going here?

It's a mighty blood-sash that the woman downstairs has spent weeks refurbishing, and a car full of kids comes out bi-weekly to pretend to help out. This will be fine for a while but once the three inch diagonal is recovered, which is expected when a repeat policy is agreed upon by the majority of the stakeholders, we can wish all we want but that won't make it so. There's a group down there who seem furious (not naming any names here) to back out of the arrangement, having sold their remaining interest, but the documents don't add up; they also don't lie. Could anyone who hasn't seen them, please stand up? Good. Now, if you have had a little look-see, please move to the back of the room and as you do so fake cough at least four times. That should give us some idea if we're on the right track.

You see, there was a recording made during the fourth fake fire. Someone can be clearly heard chewing a piece of stale wood in an effort to deceive us into thinking that escape was not only possible but insolently desirable. The party who barked orders in the corn has a lot to answer for. We'll get to that later. For now let's move on to something that's causing a boat load of inescapably minor tenuousnesses.

The meal plan that goes into effect at midnight is designed to work out the kinks, but if anyone still has any questions they should hold them until open circuit is concluded. We're concerned about the living draft. A partial piece has been spotted in tatters with a splotch that's hard to explain. We'll do out best until then. After that a rime-similar unit (even if unfit) will be installed and that should do the trick. A doubt expressed more than once will drive certain members slightly crazy. Try to cool it. It's a grafting exercise but, quite frankly, it has some folks bordering on 'livid'. If a person who has raised three mint-perfect colliers and has sought grounding permission finds him- or herself persistently ablated, it's easy to mistake a piece of gauze for a non-interred edible winklet and coast to a derisive halt. A further action is expected once the vault is open and ready for business. Your green pure-tints will expire at dawn Thursday. After that you're liable for arrest. Oh, and one more thing: we can't help finding the way you chew to be kind of sexy. Sorry. 

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Something I Forgot to Tell You About.....

Look, there's something I've forgotten to tell you about. Remember the time I met you on the sidewalk outside that restaurant where you later died of food poisoning? Well, I didn't know it then, but my landlord's father, a guy named Jim Blib, coaxed my former Studio attorney to kick in about ten grand and use his shaft as a weapon when it came to dealing with those two Offermeisters we had drinks with at Bandovere Garden. You know when I mean, right? You were wearing your Scott Paulsen Uprights, I was sporting my Nygard Warners and it seemed like everything was (quite literally) in the bag. It was only later that I found what turned out to be the last remaining box of spring-loaded fuel purses in the crawlspace that I would use that Summer to secrete the fog pellets and lead almost the entire population of Caxton Street into a confrontation with the Dagbard Filenki cadré. That didn't go so well. In fact, it didn't go at all.

When my number was called in the rigged Steelhead Ospermanitz Consortium False Frenzy  Pastorwank, I mosied into a pre-arranged rinky-dink setup and shared a stub of a pencil with Mindy Schwatz. Her partner, Ike Flebolté turned out to have 'a thing' for waving folks into the Third Line Diapond Fiasco all the while acting like an imaginary supervisor was ripping his water bill to shreds. This didn't fool most folks, but it did get the job done. Why do I say this? It's because of a little thing I like to call 'my dreamy nuisance'. It gets me through all the wrong doors at the right time, and destroys all the partially correct fleabitten nibrongupes while we eat our favorite sandwiches in the back. The back of what, you ask? The back of your head, you ninny! The front of your head is 'occupied real estate' so to speak, to use a metaphor that frankly makes me want to spill my cookies. And if that happened I'd be liable for up to five markers, which at this time I can most certainly not afford. Which reminds me, did I tell you about my new Ford 360? No? Well, just forget about it. You don't want to know.

Anyway, so, after I spent the next six seconds devouring my share of the pensive tongue stem and got up to speed on the caper you outlined the day before at the laundromat where we fleeced that broad out of her life savings, I hightailed up to Moe's crib, broke his wrist (accidentally on purpose) to keep him from switching channels, memorized the first three letters of my Aunt Hildy's chauffeur's cousin's hairdresser's developmentally disabled stepson's tutor's last name and had a time of it removing my scrotum from an antique typewriter's junkworks. I've been dying my hair a seductive shade of magenta in an effort to catch the eye of a flirty little number who works up at Theobald's. I'm nursing a hangover and things don't look good. But in another way I've got a funny feeling that I won't have to get my left foot amputated after all. There's a mildly amusing tinkling in my left ear. My neighbors tell me it keeps them up at night but I don't buy it, not by a long shot. That's the long and short of it. I'll need your decision soon since my execution is scheduled three days, nine hours, sixteen minutes and twelve seconds from now as I write this. If I don't hear from you by then I'll have no choice but to spill the beans all over your chinchilla shag carpet, and you wouldn't want that, now would you? Thought so... 

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Sonic Gerpantix

A Clue to My Astrological Sign.

Perforce the objection raised by a triumvirate of lockjawed vainglorious goons is not about to sway the Members arrayed at the request of the obscure gentleman-about-town who refers to himself exclusively in the fourth person while all around us a mob of abominable nuns cackles with a curious mixture of deceit and aplomb. To my widowed nursemaid, raised by flashlight in the killer rapprochement of '93, this must seem like just so many rancid icons abutting a final transfer incision as a trickling wand mounts the plainest zone conceived by Third Father in a moment of moist offal return. By turns ash-crazed and loopy, a sentry of the 'old school' (defined in Whister's Reference merely with a image of moi) greets the arriving monsters with a wink and a nog, plugs a randomly appearing hole with a tuft of stolen hair and has his way with a doomed secretary just arrived from the Sidleburg Jewelry Fair.

My associates, who can be counted upon to shatter every bezel and daub only the most egregious of blemishes, regale the fighting minstrels with tales told under cover of septic cardboard shacks. Over and above any reason we could conjure, the account of the face we failed to save amounts to a veiled thread option when viewed against the backdrop of a Door to Eternity propped open in perpetuity inside a geomantic shell of progress. Why would anyone even tangentially aware of our furious shoulder-shrugging myopia ever accept what amounts to a raincheck in a wind tunnel when I spot a fennel-braised, grim-visaged zero-day non-operative furiously adjusting his rainhat just to impress his besties? You've soaked my Mt Olive clarinet case with noxious fluids, and drained my Syrian tiled tub for all absorbed with barely contained glee, even if I cannot abide your deliciously abducted line. It stammers and it fritters but all the while another 'it' (the one that failed to move you) receives a most prominent listing in the Time's Up Directory. This does not bode well for a Vicar of my acquaintance, despite my dancing for his palsied relatives by firelight in a cave of probes.

By your own deck we stand, shoulder to sackstand, alert to the gambits of this, that or any Movement for Chance that darkens our decrepit window sill with cigarettes for a mobbed-up clown. Who is defeating whom here? Would you care to take a wild guess or do I need to spell it out like some punchdrunk purveyor of pansified pablum? Not that it matters anyway, what with our most special Robe in tatters and our chinbrace lost in the most recent chemical blaze. We're lucky just to be able to remember our astrological sign. (Clue: it's not Taurus, you nitwit!)

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The Lakeside Pensioneers' Insidious Betrayal.

Of the remaining featherweight vernacular stealth partnerings, she finds herself proudest of the lad whose locally aided coat could count on a frozen shirt replacement. Would that we could ever mount a musical defense so gripping that four or more of the wounded offhand statistical dream plangents find themselves honoured in the breach of behind-the-team blood mixtures. Our only, for now, waning sense of delight ought to be located, with test-deficient scandrels, in a newly non-oxidized protein allotment to be scored bi-valent as soon as our grant achieves outmoded guest status and our blaze is tipped to one per solid cupping event.

If ever a scene called out for devengeancing the eventual winker of the well storied poon module, this would be it. Now that one of the rarefied tusk smellers has approached our third seated poltroon, it strikes us as cold beyond the habitually stated excuse that the antique plaque, abjured by all but a minuscule clique, should be raised to a standard heretofore unseen, but for the Lakeside pensioneers' insidious betrayal of cultish bondsmen, themselves never more unhappy than when an indistinct phrase interrupts their Gosh Complex shenanigans. To the extent that any impression was conveyed that we approve of a vain effort to undermine efficiency goals while smearing the sacrosanct midgets who confound our much defended density, the fabled line is drawn here, in imitation gopher's blood, with a shirk-ready pencil at hand and a non-intuitive nascent groan in reserve.

But to a self it's been our distinct pleasure to forget having ever known, there appears to be a clearing up ahead. The vehicle impounded by my non-binary subordinate's kleptocratic secondary stepson seems to have been sinking in a mire of his own making, more to the swill of feeling a brain in a vestibular park of some renown. Why does it go this way? you ask. The answer, I'm afraid, is sculpted in the wind of a previous generation's idea of a loaded tricky pin. 

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The Regrettable Fate of 'Berfmire'.

In this one we hope to find a solution. The one immediately to the left, if you've noticed, has a bonded Sylvan lattice-work on the underside. That enables the pressurized particles to resume their shape if we've coaxed nonbelievers to surrender their non-optimal appachements when our work is complete, at least for the final duration in this cycle. 

Now, about your request to infiltrate the decommissioned microtubules into a generalized air proceme, it occurred to Random Person C-12 (the selection procedure is fully outlined in the orientation packet) that 'just because' will go at least part of the way to not only making you feel 'more at home', but will, in fact, keep you trapped in the smallest room. This refers to the one without walls, ceilings or floors. There's a liquid that we have a report on. Upon first contact, your brand awareness will, quite literally, go 'through the roof', but since any type of roof is also lacking, this presents us with a somewhat unique problem, one we've never seen before, in fact.

My son has filed a sworn statement averring that he has seen stolen Mickey Mantle pencils in your work area. It was only two days after I transported him, with the assistance of Proctor Renfrow and Miles Whitcomb, via the Vile Static Nullity to a State processing vacuum, that I realized his left eyebrow was missing. This was not proceeding as per plan. My beef with the secretarial pool consisted chiefly in their abominable choice of non-obtrusive weaponry. If it was up to me (and it isn't, sadly), the lying lack of shit who unstoppably refers to itself as 'Berfmire', would be escorted off of Company Fire Zone-G, given a haircut and a new unimax, ushered in to a Harville Safety-Freeze and left there until a meeting can be arranged with three of our sorriest victims, including President George Trump. That should demonstrate (as if any demonstration is needed) once and for all that WE MEAN BUSINESS! (Excuse me, but where have I heard that before?) 

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