Each of us is expected to bring at least one of our bensonites into conformance with a lurid arrangement sponsored by Proctor Jonathon's Office of Special Incidents. For my part, this time of year brings with it a touch of pheumy memories of risk-taking in search of long lost tracking ploys. Of the three bensonites under guard in my kitchen wisk, I select the bravest one in order to minimize traumatic wind-shear. As I carefully remove the covering—not an easy task even in the best of times—I notice a small yellow disk protruding from the underside near the microdot. Since there are no hairs, I figure the only safe course is to retrieve my shotgun from the car before I begin the final boxing operation.
Once the needle is set to Zero, I make my final call to Proctor's assistant who reveals the last secret word I will ever need. This is because today everything will be wiped and I can start anew as if all that's never happened can be approached as a collapsible fontade. My former instructor has been living inside an aluminum A-frame near Harcourt Plaza and won't be able to supply any more ballast until the following week at the earliest. Therefore I hope to announce my retirement to an assembled crowd of non-abusive Control Agents when they meet me at the pier for the final send-off.
It appears, though, that something might not be going according to plan. The wicket which I've relied on to avoid impaling the gyroscope on my left knee while executing the prescribed gesture has been found to be missing its soporific lending tube, possibly leading to many transitional vessels becoming lost inside an active volcano near an unknown second Equator. This calls for quick thinking on my part since I'm scheduled to go on trial in Manhattan Superior Court a week ago Tuesday and I want to look my best. That includes a false linoleum pocket square and a berfmire 'members only' club tie. Without them my goose is royally fooked and I'll look like a hooverized bastard in need of a sound thrashing. Not that it would hurt to go outside and search for a lost puppy. Just saying.....
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This is in no way a response or comment on your latest post. It is simply something that needs doing, as the saying goes. I thought I would be the most perfect one to do it, since I am attaining near perfection in my thoughts, actions and deeds. Currently, my perfection rate is stuck at 99.8%. I expect that this will improve in the next few days of mask-wearing, space-distancing, Trump-dissing, and getting 4 good night's sleep (4 in a row). I replaced the bed sheets today, so I anticipate the 1st good sleep will happen tonight as I slip between the soft white sheets, the hint of a lavender scent in my room. I can always hope, as you should. Life is for living and sleeping after all is said and done. That said, it should and will be for as long as I can imagine it. So. There. It. Is. In. A. Nutshell.
ReplyDeleteIt is abundantly clear that the final .2% of perfection is yours for the taking. These are times when thinking about a hill will occasion a deep dive into divergent ontologies of superated mickterflarbs. With out of the way, any type of a can that appears near a frothy road will scare the jeepers out of any malign mechanoid to cross your (or anyone's) path.
DeleteGood luck with the sheets. You may need it. Or perhaps not.
Yew knead too bee leave watt eye yam ah bout two imp art...awl ways by come fort able pee jays. Ore knot. Yore own lee opt shins? Phew & nun.
ReplyDeleteMy dear, I'm just a humble country Pastor. I just don't understand all your 'fancy-pants' way of talking. Sure, I studied pig-latin in community college, but that's about it.
DeleteI'm about to enter an agreement in principle to engage various third parties in alternative options going forward. We can only hope you'll come along for the ride. If not, availabilities will differ depending on weight, shoe size and flavor profile. Try not to become that famous 'last person' to make a choice or you could get left in the proverbial dust.
God bless you!