If Anyone Thinks This Post Isn't 'Serious', They've Got Another Thing Coming.

There's a sea-green pelcid which serves as an emergency coverlet for a graying strand, but only if my kids are over for the weekend and I've got papers to take next door to confirm the latest figures. The table from which I look out over a mysonite rock garden still at times exhibits a tawdry gleam which hovers over my new lector's traditional peachtree organelle. If I get in the mood, I can encapsulate a frightening story if anyone's in the room. Even if they're not, though, I have thousands of numbers displayed on a board which at times keeps me stranded on a far side where I'm likely to like strange foodlets even less. The more I think about it, the more I've come to feel obligated to fulfill a purpose for which I was never prepared, other than a two week rhythmically offensive worship parallel. I've started to maintain a warming attitude toward those who penetrate our bungalow as we watch movies about deserts.

When the couple who abuts our secondary carport accuses us of fomenting civil disturbances and tries to have us ejected and bound inside an asymetrical perimeter, I sometimes take recourse to a box of colored sand which helps my skin condition and also keeps a distance from some of the neighborhood cats. My wife has been seeing a specialist while I've been away and I'm concerned about some of her unusual experiences. It seems she remembers entering a foreigner's parlor but cannot recall the process of exiting. I ask if she's checked and re-checked her childhood operation. She replies that my imagination is playing tricks on someone I've never met. Have I mentioned that she feels entitled to a magnificent second wedding? No? Well, please consider yourself incredibly fortunate.


One of the brindles we've struggled with throughout a year of serial intrusions is turning a worrying shade of deep gray mousetard. If we allow it off of the primary shelf and grind one of our phone masks into an epistolary powder, it gives us an ease of motion which is not to be snickered at, despite what anyone may have whispered about at the town dump. They'll try anything if you let them, but they'll NEVER stop burying cast iron figurines in our traditional tapioca patch. This is when I get out my stencils and begin a campaign of factual distortions long into the night. The plain truth is that one of my oldest carbonet instructors is about to introduce our children to a lifestyle enhancement for which they have neither the maturity nor the guts to take full advantage of. A line will be drawn. Blunk will be spurned. And, at the end of the day, a trophy for blind rage will be lost in a struggle over mid-tempo finances. This is not a joke.

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