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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