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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