There's Just No Conceivable Apology for the Forthcoming Account!

 

Each of us has been certified to deposit our sidereal topcake near the contour of a looping route known only to our designated bigamist. The details are shady but, nonetheless, the delegate in our section is asked a question by a young fellow who appears unsure as to which applications will assure his continuance in high-measure metropolitan combines. He is told that at the conclusion of a cluster of trial periods, his collar mandate is sure to unfold exactly as predicted in the syrupy flier stanched from a woolen box of all-weather boat-registers. This he regards as repellent, but nevertheless decides that one of his five-fold tracking pits should do the thing and take a full-course clove into the next decade if conditions permit and scattered signals point to an early revolution in infant-animal relations.

We know that it can't seem any easier than it will ever be to treat apprentice pawns to a view of life in a donated volcano. When the sweetest love of our parasectual rampart turns to a trailing expert and expects one or more triads to suit his swill, then all manner of bannerisms could be called into the anti-struggle to secure the rights of disabused truculent fathers. As we observe them walking in pairs to a luncheon swapmeet on the grounds of an antisemitic second hand car battery distributorship, all our unfounded preconceptions as to life in a molecular aspatromy crumble like the vegetable-based tablature upon which they once found a measly surface. But without our many hands outstretched in a vainglorious gesture of nightwad jerpinquity, no one is surprised by the vectors ensconced in a once proud fecundite and her apparent negligence in the face of automatic instruction. If anyone claims that they didn't receive word, please know that they are lying.

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What Happened to Our Payment.

 

The entirety of our payment was impounded for a failure to disappear on a whim. I had already boxed my Raskin and gone to play a short game of ball with some of the local fellows. The one who you've heard about has a case of preliminary trenchmouth and I'm devastated. Because of the place he held in our grouping, it's assumed that I'll be on airport duty for the rest of the night. If the people in my blockage can't see where I've hidden a large plastic matting, we will assume that all your silvery painted cords are apt to be deployed on a roster of evenhanded ruffians. They'll tell you some of their complaints but not give you time to surrender to a windy condition. Which is why we lack even the most basic ability to follow trends to their tragic endpoint. Try to get comfy. This can't be easy. They won't.

But if they do, you can ask for a moment to rely on a peculiar gentleman who lounges weekly in corduroy weejuns. It's thought that his only reason to  keep a place in a busy segment is because he likes to hide his preferences behind an icy wall of stagflated countenances. They will seek assurance from him in the only way they know how: by scooping a dreaded mulvin from between the blades and coring it within an inch of his solid hat. It's made to stand up to undue pressure. Then we'll release it beneath our bedfellows' sheath and play like we've had something up to here (or there). Please try not to judge us by the way we motion to others in the dark. They can find it humiliating to observe you undulating in a provocative manner. The way that one thing explodes is lost on the rarest type of monad. If you search his effects, you won't find the least clue to his monstrous proclivities. That's because he keeps his business in the shadows where nothing grows evenly without bookish advice from a seldomly seen prankster. They will hold you with us. Now we go to bed. It is a scorchable index. Their slob is fried. Parents.

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Sonic Mas Dent.

Michael Roper 5 · Mas Dent

How to Tell If Your Room Has Been Moved While You Slept.

 

One of the ways I can tell if my room has been moved during the night even while I slept silently within it, is, if on the following day I'm approached by a person who claims to have been given a message to convey to a dear friend who I once knew well but has now gone on to die, not only alone but in a transparent ignominy for which he was never to blame. When that happens—and it has, I'm afraid, more than once—my only choice is to hike up my britches, look him straight in the eye and wonder aloud if I might have met him in the years before polarized television was invented. If he comes at me with a knife in one hand and a hand written friendship card in the other, I will ask if he'd care to see a specialist while I have the time to show him the ropes and make good on my promise to his parents to introduce him to people who won't hold his skin condition against him like all the others.

When he asks if now would be a good time to bask in premature adulation, I tell him that I'm through kidding around and he can either take it or leave it, by the side of a forgotten road or even near a facility that I've never had time to use. Now that his secret father-in-law has promised to donate over sixty-one million dollars as part of a research figment from the Abraham Michaelson Foundation, it seems clear that all is set for a whirlwind engagement party in the Nation's Capital. Each of us will be sure to secure our best shoes against an ironclad certainty of theft in the 'golden hour'. The children will no longer be permitted to enter our home without having first vandalized the out-building of an unpleasant neighbor. I will get a piece of spongecake and secure it to the bottom of an untapped lake which used to be the home venue of the Cleveland Cancer Babies. They won't think twice about stepping on my head when that project is curtailed sometime in May of 2031.

By the time my 'rigging' campaign is all but complete, it's thought by seasoned observers that the chance of him coming around my daughter's place of employment and offering a series of ever lamer excuses on the behalf of a besieged ethnic minority is nil at best. On the off chance that he decides to equip a targeted individual with a high powered, medical grade drippage detector, people at large will finally see the truth of the assertions that I've made for the last thirteen years and perhaps even consider hosting a testimonial affair. There's a set of flower puffs that I've prepared for just that eventuality. In addition, there's a name that I won't be using, though. You can look that up if you're so deeply invested in the outcome. They won't hold you liable if my protein supplement is siezed by Postal Authorities in British Columbia. If anyone could possibly provide an excuse, I will look kindly on their petition. It's about time!

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Tracking Tips for the Concerned Citizen.

 

It was all I could do to get her to let me follow her at a distance of about twenty-five feet into and through a passageway built and operated by the Department of Notional Outcomes. Once she realized that I was the type of person for whom the term 'gallivanting' had little meaning or appeal, she decided to undo a sacrosanct floppy overprinted mitten from her underutilized forequarter and attempt to feed me lines which might later come in handy when I was obliged to wrestle one of the three Beauregards to the ground. They would frequently  wile away their days in underused pitch-black Osterzones while we considered where to have lunch once our kids were released from Juvenile Detention. Instead, they had broken from their heritage and initiated a balodorous campaign of wondrous impunity which took everyone by complete surprise. I wasn't the least bit worried about being able to hold their Coach inside a crappy metal ball, because I knew he could swim away at the drop of a hat.

By the time I fell too far behind for her to tell that I'd never been serious about keeping her informed as to my whereabouts, I thought to look up an old Army buddy who is NOT named Fandy Loonx. We'd been through a few times together, but I couldn't help but thinking that if he could try to begin a peculiar process and I could t help him get to a spot in case he needed to, then I'd be able install his aging parents into subsidized housing for the criminally insane. It's not that I had anything against them but they always just rubbed me the wrong way, like against the natural grain of my hair, if you must know. The Dad was a punk from the South Side and the Mom knew a thing or two about solid state electronics, with all that implies. In short they'd had a rough go of it and I wanted to do what I could to see them through to a darker part of the current Century. Can I have one?

When we arrived in Atlanta, Georgia on July 9, 2013, I accidentally-on purpose caused her to step on my left eyebrow while I retrieved a tennis ball from underneath a maroon beach umbrella which gale force winds had blown into our mesolithic foyer. She played like this was just another 'walk in the dark'. I undid her mechanism and re-slid a copy box between her final two years of graduate school before she had a chance to fake an incident. Once I got her under control, I had to ask myself if any of this was worth it. After all, if one person can initiate hostilities with a small brown country, what could a team of telltale hitchhikers arrange if they put their minds to it? It's not like anyone ever thought to ask a person in late middle age if they could arrange a meeting with a mid-level mediocrity. We've now decided to sell a blanket we own in Lake George, NY. Someone might consider asking if now would be the right time to pretend to live once again. What would that type of person's answer be? We may never know, that's what.

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Ballad of the Ten Sons.

 

The ten sons, who were part of a loose knit, if ongoing, team of sorts, took turns grabbing at a furry appendage which fleetingly protruded through an opening in an otherwise opaque barrier. Their stated purpose was to bury the thing and be done with it. After all, what else could their project involve, if not the procurement of mysterious parts, to the consternation of most, but the delight of not too many in this final night of the thugfest? Most would never consider asking this kind of question, unless a rear guard action made it all but inevitable. This is where you could see some of them singing as if they really meant it. Not like the last time, if you're at all familiar.

When the first one issues his now familiar stratagem, all eyes and ears are focused as if part of a rampant melee. Each one carries a small bottle. In some cases the contents have been approved by the Lord Major. Others haven't been so lucky. One of the most low-key victims keeps his hands safely concealed beneath a treasured plate. This one has the inscription we've all been anticipating. We hear that it relates to our friends in the insect kingdom. Some of them find that uniquely laughable. Others are prepared for what cannot be avoided. Without a larger version of themselves coming to grief, that is. This is what will help you trust us no matter what conflagration shatters the peace of one thousand miniaturized blackened stones. Good for 'flicking'; but please don't go 'there' if  you know what's good for you. Sorry.

The prospective expedition to a balmy pond is what keeps them all filing backwards in a line precise enough to be observed from the flanks of 'inner space'. What galls the outermost ring of participants is that certain merrymakers have taken it upon themselves to rank their efforts on a worrying scale of appropriateness. By the time the last little bugger is grabbed and shorn of its tankless fur, you can be sure that one of their sullen dykes will have seen to it that a chewy snack is provided, if nothing else. This is where some try to worm their way in to the side where a bluff is hidden inside a temporary shithouse. They like to hound people because of it. Or else you can be assured that the trick they play in lieu of morning TV privileges is sure to gin up a mob for the coming antiquated struggle. I have each of their pictures in a book. This book is a priceless first edition. It is endorsed by the editors of Parade Magazine. One of those self-same editors one time asked me if I'd like to 'go for a ride'. I politely declined since I had a few things to take care of. He's not my friend anymore. Oh hell.

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You Have My Word.

 

Their names aren't likely ones you've heard much about in recent months, weeks or years. Even their appearances on some obscure shows are guaranteed to raise the proverbial snoozefest in all but name only. But their handiwork can't be avoided, no matter which direction you fancy yourself to be pointing, position-wise, if that. You might find it somewhat remarkable to learn that I had a habit a number of years ago to take one and then another of them underneath a wheelbarrow for an indefinite period in an attempt to find out what they're 'really' made of, constitution-wise. And I can tell you this, not one of them impressed me as the type of person that one would want to engage in any kind of complicated set-up, even if narrow strictures could be eventuated for a purpose just such as this. Because you know what? Even the fastest person will once in a while find it advantageous to take a moment before thinking of what they might want to think, say or do, and just go over it, again and again and again, in their very head if needs be, and try to iron something out, even if for the very last time. You have my word.

Now when I met my last one, this would be about a year prior to my kidney surgery, he approached me at right angles to the way I habitually faced. He said he was curious to know my opinion of his taste in applications. I replied that I would have to take him at his word, or else I wouldn't stand a chance if he decided to play rough. This was the moment when he said something that would change to course of my life in a way that no one would have ever guessed. In fact, even if someone offered me good money at this very moment, I don't think I would hazard a guess unless it seemed apparent that my time had finally come. Then there would be no choice. Grinding my teeth in anticipation would prove a 'bitter pill', and not one that I or my extended family would have any trouble swallowing, without help from our local Committee. You know how it works. Do you?

By the time I arrived at the San Rafael First Aid Station after midnight on August 13, 2007, I was convinced that our Family's trip-mount was a goner. I was reassured by Chief Hazelton that I was being recorded on a nightly basis and no harm would come to anyone if our statements added up. 'Added up to what?', I asked, even as I was quite sure that I knew exactly where he was going with this line of utter bullshit. He played it cool as he underwent a procedure at the office of a guy I know in town. I made sure his vehicle was disabled and, just to be sure, appended my signature to a petition likely to raise more than a few hackles once word got out. By that time I would be high and dry, riding out the whole thing from my four-path skids in South Rahway, New Jersey. No one would ever get to find out what I really knew, if anything. And I would get to sweep up all the too-hot-to-handle clippings for my own fat self. And that, ladies and gents, is where I will no longer draw any kind of line, come heck or a surfeit of rather ordinary liquid. Don't snatch.

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Please Allow Me to Share Some Teachable Moments.

 

There's a basin, a disconnected basin, in fact, that's in my garage next to the lawn mower. My wife has asked if I think it could be used for a particular purpose which she is loathe to discuss as long as I maintain a residence on the property. I have steadily repeated a noncommittal response and gone about my business as if nothing is wrong. Inside however, I can't help but feel a deep sense of betrayal and anomie. Once I can get my things together into a static pile and assess them for sentimental value and innate uselessness, I plan on seeking out a conversational partner, more than one in fact, with whom I can put my head together as a form of tribute to people whose fondness for results does not preclude an aversion to a mechanical way of speaking. The ladies in my book club have advised me to run for office somewhere in rural America since I have a good feeling for soil of all kinds.

In my job as a Supervisor at the Fitch College Dormitory, I am in charge of informing students and their hostile parents of what is to be expected of them in case of any kind of emergency, temporary or otherwise. On one occasion that sticks directly in my mind, I remember a group of them staring into the middle distance even as they required oxygen to upgrade their systems. It wasn't much to ask for but I did it anyway. And with gusto, I might add. The following year I saw them sneaking around a parking lot in Lewiston, Maine (this is about 300 miles Southeast of Fitch). They each held a postcard-sized piece of plastic made to look as if it was genuine wood.  The ringleader of the group appeared to be a dark-haired  woman named Sheila Ramiston. I realized I used to babysit for her retarded son when I was just a pip of a lad. We went out for coffee later that night and I got right to the point and laid my cards directly on the formica table. This is the same table upon which our coffee sat. Just to be clear, I had also ordered a doughnut.

Once Sheila saw the cards that I was holding, she folded like the cheap camera I always knew her to be deep down inside, where the sun don't shine, to put it quite bluntly. I took it upon myself to ask her point blank if anyone in her local neighborhood had ever expressed a profound disregard for folks caught up in situations for which their preparation was minimal at best. She hemmed and hawed and then proceeded to give me the phone number of a local person. I asked if she thought that would do any good. She started to cry. I lightly tapped the top of her head to try to bring her back into some semblance of contact with reality as we know it. It was all in vain. Also, it's important that anyone reading this knows that she herself is a very vain woman, always checking her chalky makeup etc. The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back near the home of a convicted arsonist. It turned out he was Sheila's nephew, Wilburt Klertner. Klertner was a 'known quantity' in the neighborhood but I knew that giving up was not an option, no matter what. So, I gave up. Can anyone actually blame me? If so, just look me straight in the eye sometime. Then we'll know for sure.

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