If some occupationally outmatched stranger grabs an individual, of whom it is sometimes said that you and he share a predilection for waxy tacticians, throws him deftly underneath a disabled futurist's box of essential supplies, then you'll be entitled to express the now prevailing consensus that once in a while 'fairness' just is not what it's been cracked up to be, at least in recent years.
Speaking of 'passing the smell test' (not that we were; could you please try to get over yourself?), one of my wife's Franklin Oxides barely even starts to do that for me anymore, at least if I believe some widely marinated Sailor's baldfaced account of life in the Ancient Perneeya's squalid seacoast. A pageant is a good way to take your mind off of less suitably atrocious difficulties. A beauty pageant, I mean. Not the other kind. That would be literal suicide.
But if a book of predominantly pastel paint samples is to be considered any kind of authority, then why would the folks we regularly see bandying stuff about not just get lost like we told them to? Because it's not fair? Is that it? NO! The long and the short of it is that the person I love has been called a traitor. State, County and Municipal dingbats are convinced that I have personally poisoned the Community Water Supply Cistern.
Shopping is now nearly unendurable. Each one of my plastic ornaments has been forcibly removed by a certain busybody named Helen P. And, as if all that weren't enough, my not-so-permanent floral arrangement contiguity-Satan, is now just a rusted out and neutralized hostile party-planner utility desk. It's also been thrown directly in the water for all I know. Please do not try to correct me with the facts just because I'm fat.
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