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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