After-Action Report to Induce a Fond Betwittal.

When I enter into a Patsen Room and tell them my name as such, the startled heartthrobs occupying the third row are given to understand that there will no longer be a time, or any time at all, like that which preceded us in a modest direction. We will do all we can to cajole feelings from a man who is fresh from a hitch in the Sick Knob. Usually flakes of his type are removed from opportunities to start any sorts of parallel trouble. Unfortunately, in this scandal plagued administration, no one is apt to emit an identical account of life in a third rate imitation of a worn out kinship fetish. My own broad understanding of leakages attaining a staggering risk profile keeps me up at night staring into pages of mis-allocated docu-trash. A gem which rattles underneath a plush chair of unique design is due to be locked forthwith outside of any reasonable containment. This is for the good of the Community. Bless you.

We like to think of ourselves as people for whom stalling is never a likely course of successful endeavor. But whatever we, or anyone, may find ourselves inclined to think, it does not wipe away the effects of a generated object placement when something other than that is said and/or done. I'll keep every last wiggum until a natural chime is flayed at a crossroads adjacent to the false masthead of a bone-tired editor's rancid devisement. What will it take to persuade even the most ironclad mascots of our sincerity in the performance of time honored rituals which keep us fresh from lerquified feeth? It takes all of us working as one among many and thrilling to the sound of a buttered hazmat trophy to steal our sand. This is why we keep you in thrall to a teenage wapner and throw all your trowels into the storage bay of a limited keepsake. It goes better with ancient gum. You'll see.

It's like the drip drip drip of access being senselessly denied even as my parole officer's wife is asked to request a chipper form upon which to list the ways she's considered appearing more svelte. I know it sounds like a put-down of sorts, but we can no longer tolerate the generation of instantiated boilerplate. And that's what passes for a progressive commitment to base level ontologies with all that implies. The ones who dream of my purity zone and try to nick the focus of one so old are apt to seal a miniature sculpture of Baphomet inside a compartment originally meant for steam heated playtime cutouts. This is when our collective throat cries out for a crisp ordering of blander collar phones. Now we are able to tell just by looking at our hands each time your mob boss decides to fink on a fibber. There's no pretty call that you can wrap your head around, so please stop getting used to it. It might be a guy named Steve Wismer. Drink that.

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Sonic Karlem Plus Not

Michael Roper 5 · Karlem Plus Not 12

Cautionary Tale About What Happens When an Even Larger Piece Breaks Off.

The second, larger piece had broken off and we'd thought it was lost for good until we heard that it had been reunited with its mates via the efforts of an elite parlor tramp whose active measures never didn't induce us to sit up and take notice. On a day when even your typical malign governess literally can't get arrested but for the efforts of a bigger boy than I'll ever be, you'd think it would be beyond humiferous to find bulbous gloats scattered among the otherwise everyday items which give life meaning to a boatload of fawning nurses. First they'll tell you that it won't move under its own power, then they'll ask you to step into a smallish compartment, remove any radioactive elements and have it out with a forlorn spouse and finally they'll whisk you away to an undisclosed location before you can enjoy even a modicum of unbecoming solitude.

Now when we look about and try to place some of the younger ones into situations which don't require any poise or benguimental apparel, it seems most players have opted to go it alone and try their luck at infantile tricks rather than face up to where facts can take us if we but give them a chance to fail with dignity. No one ever thought to compare their stability with that of the glorified placeholders who breech the fray on an almost weekly basis, if not sooner. I'll carry you face first into the Lindomere Tunnel and you can report your enjoyment to an odd collection of numbskulls. It will only hurt if you give them a reason. If not, then we'll wash our hands of the whole thing. Why must you make this so difficult?

There's a baker who I've been seeing on the side for the past few months who says that I'll no longer be allowed to spring a load of pancreatic cancer cells directly into the Governor's laundry sack. I've told her over and over that my intentions were in no way hurtful and if she could just find it in her heart to place me directly in the path of an oncoming varmint, I'd be good to go and that would be the end of it. She insists that my plan looks like someone's leaked a popsicle stick into an ultra secret Corporate re-branding campaign. As ever, she doesn't know what she's talking about, but that's never stopped her before, is all I'm trying to say. There shouldn't be any problem finding her a new position but I'll be damned if I'm going to live in a topside accommodation against her paltry will. She gives new meaning to the word 'drumbeat'. And please don't ask me to look into your case. I've got enough on my plate as it is.

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Can You See One?

In the time it took to stop raining, those of us who, more often than not, sleep on the other side of the wall had concocted a plan to reply to a series of fake phone calls with a masterstroke of our own devisement. It probably wouldn't be 'pretty', but its effectiveness could hardly be considered anything less than undeniable. When I was first on the inside, I approached the big lug who appeared to be in charge. He would routinely motion for us to start or stop eating, sleeping, urinating or defecating. Once in a while the signals got crossed and someone would use a stunning comestible as a head support contraption. When I reached him, he was standing, perched on a step ladder as he was, and asked if I could be excused to inspect a rare avian species that just happened to have made a home near a strip mall on the other side of the county. He gave me the go-ahead, so I switched cars and went beyond the others while they were still undergoing mindfulness based stress reduction. I thought they were kidding. Turns out I was wrong.

Now that I've been keeping company with Jerome Hollander and Lucius Benglom, I've begun to see a new side of the way nervous people can have a deleterious effect on teamwork and industrial bonhomie. Those two were the first to ever show me a gambit you can pull with a hankie to make people wonder if they've come in the right door. It will make them think that they've accidentally contributed to another episode of indoor flooding. And when one of their feet becomes stuck in a freshly appearing hole, everyone will begin writing notes to a person concerned with armed stock trades. They'd been giving us to a line of taperers and no one had thought to include some very vulnerable students in our overflight regime. This could not go on much longer without those on another side being forced to trudge in a way that would make them, frankly, look kind of 'silly'. Who is it who said that again?

When my 'chill' reaction had been duly noted and thoroughly derided, I got it into my head that even if my leadership profile was to be inserted into a granulated husk with all the others, that would in no way help the stragglers under my purview. Their heads all gave off the odor of freshly mowed lawns even though their feet were still locked into a gesture of unnatural innocence. I knew that, if by nightfall, some ignorant Phalangist could be persuaded to unload a trunkful of catagenic disaster-ready pendasteters into a targeted colony instead of via the usual method, then every one of our 'old school' lectors could be made to fulfill any treatment codex we could ever imagine. What I'm saying is that they were fully ingested. Any residue just became fuel for a further onslaught. Now we keep all of our saved efforts in a neaping room at the Base. That way the strictures are guaranteed to plow our mueblar and no one will get trapped on the other side. Will you take a side? It works. But even before it starts to work, it definitely shows. Can you see one?

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A Quandary in the Old Fort.

One time, years ago, when we were in the Old Fort, I considered giving her a dollar. You might say that I thought better of it, but that's not quite it. Because the way she would run between stations had a lot of folks impressed. I knew better though. While it wasn't an act from start to finish, other people would start to moan if I so much as began to wheel straight through the center of it, even as her darling little portion captivated the naysayers and had the effect of backing them into a corner, even while undoing their excuse for breathing. So the dollar stayed in my left front pocket and both of my wrists crossed each other but not even a premium blade could have cut my determination to shreds if I so much as leaked a petty comment to a wafting peon.

You could have seen our new way of eating things, people and even food, but for the flooding in our improvised dining portillo. There was a meter about thigh high which cast a flailing production of High School Romeo with occupants of a dilapidated helmet. We have decided to never meet with a person who refuses to respect our hortatory requirements. The one time we did that, I got out of the car a few minutes too early and missed the entire Band of Queers. And that wasn't the first incident. You should have seen the time she insisted that I enter a building. These things are not usually done. I'll wear a shape inside my brain and no one can ever afford to not find that appealing. Once they cool off, I'll have them indicted for petty cash. That way my camisole stands a chance of winning the day.

As the drain makes that pretty sound which ignites the fondest memories, I never stop ruing the day I sold my last oval for a chance to have my very own baby. They come in a number of shades but the one we all seem to like is portrayed as the melting point of our little cupid hearts. It gives a  green taste. The likeness is quite remarkable. My own baby is now living on an island as a French derplomat. He says it keeps him as sharp as an astronaut, but without the webbing. The trail of trees could get my vote, but I don't expect to be done by then. Go cry.

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One Man's Struggle to Retain Integrity in a World Gone Mad.

From where he sits he has a hard time seeing the presentation of a novel sequence in the current particle build. The woman who has been trained to keep an eye on him does not mind giving the impression of seeming vacuity, all the while roving this way and that with a prominent attorney's claw in her tooth for good luck. What he doesn't know is that this whole  set-up is based on his very own remarks which put things in motion. No one was supposed to have any idea. The one time he himself had an idea, people expressed a newfound willingness to engage in ponderous lickspittle, in exchange for which he stood to be dunned a likable amount of markers. From the Big Ten on the ceiling, to a call issued in the latter half of the second ninth, he could tell that if the tallest woman in his plan could not come to an adjustment, then he would be forced to abide by a mandate from a Room in an alternate location. This is why he was pissed.

What could it be that always frees one of the little fryers to forage in disguise and Lakeside Elements to withstand the ever constant buffering? He will indicate that he is in possession of one of the possible answers. In order to convey an impression of asinine predictability, he will go to great lengths to feign a belief in mission-critical blunders. The point that he once made in a Siamese roadhouse, when everyone present had become wedded to a total non-starter (idea wise), had the effect of putting even the insubstantial squirmers at ease, if you can believe that. Now we find their accounts spread quite widely in Matterhorn networks. But no one knows who has done the spreading. In fact I DO know. It's a guy named Jim. His last name rhymes with a Holiday celebrated by approximately one fifth of humanity. I think you'll have no trouble guessing. There you go!

When a scar appeared on his egg during a session with a Dutch-trained company shrink, he made bold with a series of facts which no one could have anticipated would land him in a hot waterhouse of his own design. In the first room, about half of the items bore the telltale signature of the flagrant originator of Primitive Number Relief. You know how he reacted to that, right? That's not what he did though. No, what he did was, he gathered the last of his people at the Wingate and read them the riot act, so to speak. The only one to voice the nariest peep offered to shield a device implanted in his forehead from bastardized sub-frequencies. Unfortunately, that just was not adequate. No one was likely to die, but disappointment was rife. And it showed. Then it snowed. That's when I asked if anyone had a comb. What do you think?

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Most Folks Would Botch a Scheme Like This, But Not Yours Truly!

It is said by those who claim to know better that every person keeps, or should keep, one particular thing close at hand in a time similar to the one in which we now find ourselves. And even though those who spout this patent nonsense are reviled for their duplicitousness, they still command the respect of a substantial portion of our namby-pamby, if hooliganized, proletariat. I knew one once myself. It was shocking to me the lengths to which he would go to appear to be a paragon of good taste.

What happened was, I needed him to approach a woman I'd had my eye on since the prior Summer and induce her agreement to a series of veiled threats being monitored by some of our local people. Her usual tactic would be to get all up in his face but this time she played it cool. Too cool by half, if you ask me. For what it's worth, she was known to be a chronic loafer. She most definitely had a mind of her own, but I couldn't let that stop me from trying to engineer her short term indecision while I slipped a banned pamphlet onto a shelf in the library located near her apartment when I was sure no one was looking. I have to admit that this gave me a terrific erection.

As I drove east on County Road 37, I couldn't stop thinking of ways to inculcate a rigidified perspective in the few remaining olmers who stood in the way of my realization of a life long dream. I was viciously attacked for my previous adherence to 'old school' standards of pliancy and vain quiescence in front of a motley crew of six or seven flight attendants who'd enrolled in the Kai Fu workshop I held each Spring at the Y. They looked puzzled and one of them admitted to a pattern of spousal de-denturing before I took her hand and showed her a thing or two about life in a time of crisis. She tried to accompany me to a hockey game later in the year. I had no choice but to put a stop to it in the only way I know how. I arranged for her arrest in a bungled phony passport scheme set up by my brother Phil Wibner. I knew I could take it from there. So I did. But not before I went deaf in my left ear. Go figure.

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