Excuse Me, But This Is Something Which Just Needs to Be Said!

 

The word, the phrase, the sentence: as each is encountered, an alternate imprint is provided at minimal effort, all malice forgiven. As a refugee sleeps, there is a tangent which obviates a latent, if switchable, tonally oblique appraisal. Of this only, some of our suppliers can afford to be shaded as a lens is inserted. The darkened compartment will be vouchsafed as we turn you toward a fenced lancet in all good stead. Your olway comes second. A drink secures the entrance of a trusted advisee. Now our pain-free license is set to grip the future allotment of non-secure factlets and train the orders upon a locked treeless lenten bromad. If we engage a paltry stuntwoman in our fracas, then woe unto any forensic psychiatrist who darkens our fold without so much as a keen, wizened grulch. Please take us at our worshipful dugout puntie. They won't know that you are neither here nor present at a location which is thought to be somewhat similar. It serves you right. My name is Roger Bingaman. You are charged with servicing foreign military personnel. Get over it.

There is a type of colored sand that cannot but add zest to our already grainy, odorless set-up. With the tidal portion of a rimmler's ocean hat, any feasible acknowledgement that isn't already received can no longer be accepted without your script being delayed by an additional three weeks. Some of our current sisters are expected to tell a select group of enraged passersby that when we load the final tranch of mechanical desks into our oldest vesicle, they will no longer be seen during the holiday portion of our criminal enterprise particle. For this, a payment is a grievous insult to tender hearted mercenary home builders. There's a trip in this for anyone not already ensconced in a vituperative songbird's digestive canal. We WILL go there with all good homes. Our plea is to your ontological spear. Chase you with of and in. Each spot sells itself on books alone. Tricks go for the wiggum. Brownish lamp. Frosty penis.

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Data Points Re: Life in the Penciltania League.

 

Those of us in the Penciltania League are having trouble keeping pace with a retired Officer who leads us into and through the confines of a wholly owned Cave. At the direction of his Superiors, he dunks each of our protective bonnets into an invandillic copper bucket which is wheeled to and fro with its own meshlike tracking helper. Into the bucket, before the dunking, and then way out the other side, he places molded pieces which evoke imprecise reckonings on our parts. He is told through a personal device that our actions are observed, noted and dismissed. I keep my own station, but at breakfast panels I hold a paper which allows for one free visit with an engaging conversationalist. I treasure this opportunity and prepare myself with an eye for the telling detail. I've not yet mentioned about the trick which I keep locked away. Away from the others, that is. Under my own purview, access is enforced, when not actively accelerated.

The bearable afternoons come and go like anything else which renders pretexts obsolete, but not in the sense that is usually indicated in these missives. The aprons that we've been given play to our very gravest weaknesses. A likable person is often seen as expendable when emotional trauma becomes etched in a stone-like halfer. Even a female is activated when training comes to a halt. Her very hair is a gift to an unencumbered witness. We will show him our process. After that he is expected to reign supreme over all deficient cross-purposed challengers. This is a 'game changer'. We can only thrill to the yoke if every satisfied mentioner is sacrificed to the peculiarities of correct banner disposal. They tried like the dickens. Now they're all dead. All's the pity, but the Tribe's only son lives on. Just not like she insisted they would.

In a matter of seconds I am to restore a glittery object to its place of scorn in a Gallery near to our native River. I am urged to take every precaution. Still, this will not allow me to bolt mechanically, without fluidic thought providing a backdrop of sorts. This is where we return before anything else is formed. The strictures are real. Not one of our hosts is able to pronounce a simple word. The work is cut out for any Disciple who waits. But, now that they have started to breed their own versions, there is a fear that the Spirit of Industry has seen its demise come to life in an escalating pattern of secular infighting. Why do we know that this is a ticket to a sudden encirclement? We don't pretend to. It's just the base that we are given to play with. At their own wits we will keep them safe, warm, dry and crinkly. For this you will receive a chop. But not in the kisser. Please move.

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Sonic Unduvulox

 

Michael Roper 5 · Unduvulox

The Future Memory of Polarized Bastions.

 

Over time, the roots of our insolence were absorbed; branch, feeder and may-bed, to the limiteurs whose set-points keep all to a willing advance. Of a book, we are designed to run in a blanked plantern, a screened vowel to escape a daily powered, if somewhat red, whoring fiber. But with the one inside the name we keep positioned, every assurance being given, one pilfered joinder at an incline: the roll you pierce is the only stamp to grim your picture in our salted, unique overflow. We will bait your carmelized nook with fancy lateral skid-parks. This will show any of our inspectors if your seriousness can be trusted. Our good night is never above your scope for passive altercations. A stumble can be assumed. The one voice you won't hear is that of our assumed decliner. This will allow your sheild to be heated through a basic glow. That's what gives it a vanishing module. And keeps us famished. What now?

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When the barest exhalation is countered by a noonday's opulent pull, will this give our sourest mirage a disk upon which to sally? You won't find us any sorrier that the intent was freed from our instrumental usage bargain. If anyone loves your locus of ambits, it's 

the one whose marvelous crappage is willed into the prestigious pavilions of our Nation's Security Retards. Where our donors ever received their well-sourced tinkling idols, is not a question to usurp our gambits into a rapturous icy fog. But if ever we decide to re-do our marked traditional bridges, then, if even the Bishop's daughter displays a proximity to endemic salt, we will proceed to give her a branch upon which to mark the sanitor's decay, each capricious node in a rhyme of oxidized whist. It pleases us that you give planets the grift of a wife gone boldly slotted. They will tree her if we die. I will release my only medallion in this affair. The date will be July 29, 2031. No one will ask if you've given up. Our batch of keepsakes is prepared for selection. All that remains is for you to tidy up and be still. It won't hurt. Promise.

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An Ultra-Serious Proposal.

 

Would you like to meet a person I'm thinking of? In real life, I mean, not the other way. You get the picture. Okay, sure. So, it's known that she teaches Professional Studies at an alternative high school in the Adirondacks. Her favorite singer is Jennifer Lopez Mantilla. It turns out that she's lived in a house for about a year. Before that she stuck to herself and made do with half a laundry room in a clinic some distance from here. By the way, just so you know, I still haven't met her yet. I just go by reports I get from contacts I've cultivated since I was mustered out in the late '90s. It's still good for a laugh once in a while.

I'm hoping that you could write me a letter. I don't mean the kind you put in a mail box. I mean the other kind. You'll get used to it soon. Some people have all the luck. The others like to hide their feelings behind an insincere way of holding their heads when they would otherwise be diligently involved in trying to make existence more bearable for a chosen few. Chosen by who, though? You could begin by talking straight through to the following day. We'll knock off at three. That should give you time to make amends to my girlfriend. She's starting to get upset by the way you look at her while I'm trying to think of something innocuous to say to help the time pass more efficiently. They pay me to do that, you know? No? Well, please get used to it, because nothing is apt to change now that we've gotten started in earnest. Thank you. 

Anyway, so you asked if I was due to sign a paper that could get you a 'full-up', right? Well, here's the thing: while I was stuck with some of the people who I thought could help you, the other ones, the ones who left early I mean, told me that my jacket had already been taken by that guy you warned me about. You said he was a 'tough customer'. You were right. My bad. But, you know what? I blame you anyway. And you know what else? So do most of the folks I talk to on a daily basis. They like to joke about your hair. I tell them, 'Don't go there, girlfriend'. They look at me like I've popped a gizzard and then stand back while I demonstrate one of my techniques.

Generally after that I don't hear shit from them for the rest of the afternoon. By which time I've resettled my family in one of the not-so-temporary camps. It's run by the Department of Arts and Leisure. They've got a guy there who sometimes engages in an activity . You should see it. However, a lot of stuff will go easier if you don't. See it, I mean. Do you find that I'm swaying you at all? Or is this whole enchilada just a waste of hot breath? Don't get me wrong. I do find you tremendously sexually captivating. It's just that I'm due for renewal soon, so I can't afford any 'wrong moves'. To be honest, I'd still be kind of concerned if I met you in a hallway half way around the world during a long drive. That's why I'm still casting about for a motive for an upcoming spree. You would too. Not that you asked.

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A Strategic Re-Assessment of Events at the Hellendale Motor Court.

One of us was once asked, in the wee hours during a failed stopover at the Hellendale Motor Court, if she would like to see several of the oldtimers who'd been preparing for this occasion, in lieu of motioning to a line of drivers who were champing at the bit to get something underway, for real this time. As it was all going around in her head, she was asked by a line-captain, dressed in red with black trim and tasteful appointments, why she'd never been approached before, since her learning curve seemed headed back, without any knots, come what may. She stammered out a garbled message from a master planner who thought he had a way with the ladies, but who never stopped trying to hide the fact that he was upset. As she achieved a very natural punctuation, more than a few noticed that they no longer felt angry. They decided to chip in and buy her a plaque for her foyer. She was beside herself with gratitude and impalpable resentment. It showed on her hands. The way she held them at her side. No one even tried to stifle a fleeting sigh, though. It was that kind of night.

As I was preparing a slide presentation on this situation during our most recent meeting, my cord snapped and I found myself unable to speak. At that time I was still sneaking around certain backyards of inappropriate neighbors. This highlighted the fact that even during a season of hurtful behaviors, the motions of others still exerted a fascination over what remained of our group. The young lady in question is, even now, a close associate whose ring binder contains a contemporaneous record of blunders committed in the name of post-doctoral research profiles. In fact, I had given her contact information to an independent party of three to scope out a location for an upcoming rectification summit. She seemed like the type to limit her appearances to a once-per-hour mandatory minimum. I knew I could count on her version of events to win out in the end. What I didn't know is what ended up causing my referral to State Authorities. They don't play around, in case you haven't heard.

If even one of the sorry gents present that night at the Hellendale Motor Court had bothered to inquire as to whether any play-acting would help implicate our enemies, then we could be sure of one thing and one thing only. The question is, though, where does it say that people who go to great lengths to inscribe their fortunes on the baselines of history wouldn't be the very same ones whose slatternly pacing enables civic portraiture to embody a vivid trope of sanitized dust? This is where one of our own lines had failed to be drawn. For what would we give our native aplomb, if not the resting bulse of a nature composed of static elegance? Sure, we know that's not a fair question,.. but neither is something else. Anything?

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A Troubling Incident Involving Our Son.

One day during the time when we lived in the part of the State where we were then located, our son, Niles Jerbik, came home from school, this time without the beechers that had  become his constant companions, apparel-wise, and told us something mildly disturbing. He said that while he wandered idly through the aisles of a stationery shop in a somewhat 'seedy' part of town, he overheard a woman say something to a person she appeared to know. He couldn't make out the words, but he knew from the sound of it that something 'just wasn't right'. I questioned him deep into the night, all-out interrogated him, in fact. Still he was scant on the details but, from the look on his eleven year-old face, I could tell that people up and down the line might risk asking some very uncomfortable questions. Questions that neither Niles nor I had any easy answers for.

In what would prove to be the turning point of our marriage, my wife, Glevenda Molincourt, decided during this very same evening to tell me a point-blank lie, directly in front of my sorry face, about something that happened the previous week. I'd been having trouble completing a meal-planner for a facility I'd been running on the sly since my brother-in-law, Hiram Maccabee, had been hooked in a likely operation to scuttle the results of an overbroad inquiry into School Board voucher receipts. I knew he was clean but that didn't stop my wife from going full 'third degree' and throwing away a precious appliqué that I'd been hauling back and forth underneath my Ram 250 for the better part of a month. When word got out that we were in trouble, suitability-wise, I was approached by concerned busybodies from as far away as Old Sarleytown and told to mind my own business and not to stick my neck out, if I knew what was good for me. The problem was, if anything was to prove 'good' for me, I'd have to adhere to my original plan, even though I knew that I would live to regret every last second of it.

Once we told our son to go to his room, my wife and I had a 'heart-to-heart' and reached a provisional agreement. I was to provide a minimum of five dollars per year in electronic payments and she would take steps to engage an unidentified brunette in a troubling conversation, the results of which cannot be made public until all concerned have been fully vetted. Further, we will announce the winner of a Fantasy Dream Competition from the stage of the Newport Convention Center on or about August 12, 2029. We will be approaching a number of independent contractors to provide armed security, warning spots, executive food services, pet laundry devices and leased tracking launchers. Anyone who fills our bill of particulars is invited to submit a sealed bid no later than December 9, 2013. See you in court.

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A Curious Scenario in Three Parts.

First there's a part where I'm told by my co-worker not to lie too close to the edge of the sink or risk electrocution by other means. I inform him, as I have on prior occasions, that none of the wires have been stripped, unless he knows something that I don't, for example. He sniffs and walks haughtily into a doubles match from which a return is never in doubt. The way his shirt hangs is not particularly to my taste. He thinks he invented a style of walking which communicates a veiled contempt. I find it somewhat amusing anyway. Please don't tell him that these concerns are part of my thought process. He might be inclined to start slipping and no one can afford that, at least not during the present crisis. Take it from me.

Then there's a short break and most of the others split into short groups of twos and threes. This is usually the point when I make a break for it and try to have certain things memorized in case I'm questioned at the gate before I've had a chance to speculate on my role in an upcoming robbery on our sister campus. It's well understood that I've been volunteering at a wounded bird sanctuary. My mentor there has taken it upon himself to needle me about my abrasive (as he calls it) accent. I try to show a lot of understanding, but there is such a thing as limits, is all I'm trying to say.

When we re-assemble in the hours just before dusk, everyone notices a pleasant odor and comments to each other on the need for a new beginning. No one knows what steps could be hoped to bring this about, especially when our numbers are declining rapidly. The hope seems to be that if we assemble in a nightly mass, breathe as one and synchronize the appearance and movement of one or another body segments, this will give us the confidence we need to fabricate a circle of care which will redound to our faith in a resplendent touchstone. I seem to remember that I myself have one but know that letting this information out could spell my expulsion from the problem. This isn't something that fills me with any kind of glee or delight. But for my previous involvement with the Hare Krishna Organization, this is the first time I've been near more than three persons and not had them sneering behind my back. I still need to lose five pounds. Wish me luck. Get lost.

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We'd Like to Ask Someone a Question.

The one who doesn't look inside my council is interested in forming a grouping with like minded others. The purposes which will be served are still secret but even I suppose that I'm not quite 'there' yet. Except for the expressions on their flaccid faces, not a single person that I've ever met would have a clue as to what's really going on behind the scenes. When each is asked to dye their hair a different shade of sandy brownish yellow, I will make sure to get paid the minimum to stand aside and let them have it, as long as someone prepares a place for unaided chewdren of standardized pricklers. That will cause them to look smaller by the second and no one will be certain that they've even seen one. Without a flairing glance, who could begin to tell? A likable one, perhaps?

But with each of the soiled cartridges now applied directly to a South-fronting pulch, we can be forgiven for not taking the time to ask our forebears to withdraw a single hair from a stinking mask to churl the bonbons. The paper cape that I wear due to sanitary requirements is not apt to last until the end of hostilities and without that I'll be due for an inflection before the week is out. I'm told by grieving associates of their struggle to foretell even a single day's figures while one of them is ordered to lose weight or else. The name that I've fantasized using will come up for review in the early Spring. By that time I will have almost finished digging the tunnel that will take me to a freethinking approach to alternative lifestyles. Banning trademark phrases will get you nowhere. Try to understand your attachment to intramural coaching. Then you'll be on to something. It won't be big, though.

A girl from out of town has asked my attendant if I could throw her a little work now that my approach has been splattered all over one of the pages that she keeps at the ready to trip up my people. They've been warned more than once that if anyone so much as breathes a word of this into a shared accommodation, then no one can hope to be spared a visit to—or from!—a nightly drone. I'll keep your own page secured in my locket and will only pack a hip if I'm driven from my useful psychic spambot. When word comes through that someone on the list has been accepted into the Culinary Problem at Fitztown Tech, there may not be enough bits of tricoly left to unwind the bastard's sullen boofer. This won't look good on anyone's resumé. There's a pet in this for the third least unlikely participant to scope the wand. Does this seem like you? Admit it.

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