The Upcoming Investiture and Its Piquant Aftermath.

 

During the coming Investiture, which has been the subject of not a little consternation, our opening idea is to wait until a loud knocking is heard from below and take that distractive opportunity to wrangle a deplenitive wench into a wayward opening on the opposite side so that any residual doubts are evaluated as dubious at best. With each of her arms pinned into a staircase-type of position, three of our turncoats will pronounce her a liability to our cause and leave her confused as to the origin of a blanking flash. Only the slightest scratch will be enough to effect a transfer to a more congenially shapeless affair. For this we only offer the most turgid of elemental instructions. You must remember that she has promised numerous times to carry a light and frimpy shield to signal a masterless deficit of penumbral strokes.

When it comes to the plea that I will submit at the end of next month, each participant is asked to donate one solid red setboard and memorialize a list of qualified ruminants whose actions are questioned even if our own Federally subsidized preachments engulf a packed house of raffish teddies. Their own smell is a clue, as if any were needed, that this activity is throbbing with opportunistic borderlessness. They feel that your expressions of devotion should be enough to end a day of rootless whispering. I tell them that their style of carping is likely to help us monetize the flood-eating cafeteria at the end of an extended lounge-type spatial arrangement. They act like I'm seeing things when all I want to do is lead by an example that is not to be trusted in any case. Yes, I was bowled over. Is that why you asked? Don't tell me.

When it comes to pestering League officials with a statistical ponsibiquity, anyone who is aligned with our peripheral magnet is guaranteed one solid oak mystallion to be assigned in the order of conformance and treated with a subtonal perfuke at a random second hand blotch. Her vocal performance is tantamount to a ready-made confession of misadventures in a highlighted instrument or two. You will go there with a former friend in tow. I will bind each of you to a tinged yellow box of some distinction. This is not to be trusted without my say-so. Just ask if my name is Joseph Santangelo. Then approach me about my part in helping your companion engage in questionable behavior. And finally, if you find any of my responses to be problematic, you will be given a ceremonial plaque for safekeeping during the upcoming disturbance. That should keep you quiet for the remainder of the term. Can I have that in writing? No.

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Abfactual Reflections.

 

The shape defines its owner by the color of the day it reaches fruition. The sound is one of serious caution, although one may love definitions beyond any strategy of pulling in tandem. We live beside a halted landslide of immeasurable promise. Personally, I keep a leavened derpictionary at the ready to aid in the observance of predicate disorders of the ontic flesh. She, who rescues any who sink beyond our willingness to negotiate a pageant of soundless yelling, will enable the transmission of our customs into a newly conquered borderland. There, the ones who flip inside a ring have limited recourse to the power of song over love. Any face which greets the rising gun with a toothsome promise of fidelity to a dreamed up calculation, is shown to be the one for which all late arrivees offer a word of balsamic cheer.

You can tell that we never made an effort to treat the demands of faded characters with the seriousness indicated by our expected farewell address. All attendees who evince a sound quality which encourages an internal spinning sensation are set to receive a reward in the name of a deceased caller to our show. This will be one of the few times they are allowed entry into a camp that bears the name of an anonymous settler.

Clothing is inspected and a person who lives in a room may be delayed while rumors are circulated in name only. Where might we grieve when all who plow are given a gentle tap into a wider lesson? The fate of charity balloons is no mystery if lanterns serve just as well to ache the day. As it is wide, so does it glow. And now, with a chipper meal afoot, all of our basic parameters are fixed to a negative charge as our well is groomed for future cases. Inside of each case we place the tonal result prior to the ingestion of any plan. When asked about our signal, his only response was to  point his staff at our half-finished enclosure and aver that his own wagon was well and truly cooked. And yes, this surprised no one at all.

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Sonic Wrink Land (the First)

 

Michael Roper 5 · Wrink Land I

A Brief Portrait of Two Known Persons.

 

One claims to be the recipient of a set of facts which he can trace to their inchoate origins. The other, seemingly without the approval of his peer cohort, prefers to be seen in the company of large-fisted young ladies of a Slavic profile. Together they decide to corrupt one of our finest Companies for the private amusement of a non-compromising base, the overarching goal of which is to one day see each and every person of a prohibited flancing status be reduced to a red-light behemoth figmented in our very own shelter of frailty. I have seen both of them in action, most recently during a drive I took into the Central Highlands of Northwestern Virginia. As each one reached for my cape, I let it be known that my appetite for juvenile wariness had reached its sell-by date in just the manner they might have safely supposed. It was a warning sign, as if any were needed, that those who we previously thought could be hounded into a basalt containment regime when all others had demonstrated their profound motionlessness, could be brought to term in only the dimmest light imaginable. Sorry if that breaks anyone's iron resolve. It couldn't be helped.

When the breen is fought to a standstill, all anyone sees fit to consider, is what a guy who used to do my nails used to call, with a rare if unbastardized candor, a trial which tests our ability to hold space for the likely opponents of our lamest targets. This is how micro-sound often enters the picture. On the plus side, it can be proven, without recourse to patently feeble constructs, that a brightness on the seeded end need not engulf all who enter without life-positive support compounds. To our detriment though, when persons whose names are randomly disclosed seek to nullify each of our vain attempts at resolution, then our 'army of one' will scorch their testament in a manner that can no longer be tolerated without a blast-prevention workshop taking place during the off-months of every second year. This is why we hold you nightly inside a fraught ligature. It couldn't be any easier than that.

With the drain on our resources now verging on a full-gallop phase, we think it only fair to request that anyone who goes by the moniker of Dermott Driscoll now come forth to enable us to enshroud a phantasm in plant-based residual warning flaps. You'll find that they usually measure in the six to nine mile range. The colors will quite often shift from a tawny yellow to a frimpy aquamarine luster. The hairs, while sometimes resembling infant oyster threads, are once in a while found described in lists of risk tangents attached to the normalized flow of meta-logical umbral palace shits. Thus we go to our most taut specimens for believable succor to withstand the expected shift of pleasant balances in our most boring practice mode. No one who hasn't handled these kinds of extended farm trophies can be expected to seek a moment of rest in a fully bitten wainscott. They won't be coming back without the usual fenculic pleas. Please take just a moment to consider that. Okay.

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Quotidian Observations.

 

We are content to sit and watch pairs of faintly Teutonic mademoiselles skip gaily by our station. It is not for us to make hasty judgments. Our moderation is only one of our protective layers. The future for which our breaths are held is approaching at a rate not to be exceeded by the vanishment of embarrassing flashes. The skirt of one of the taller ones catches on a thorny bush and all comers are relieved when order is unveiled in the midst of a nightly singing conflagration. This scarcely counts toward replacing our regimented tightwads with burly cone-sitters anytime soon. By the time some of your wearier colleagues are told the truth, all who value a candid exposure will be released to scrounge beyond self-imposed limits on tertiary language concerns. Where exactly does this fit in with an all-encompassing element? Would anyone go so far as to say that they tried it one too many times? They wouldn't have if some persons had indicated otherwise. Don't say that.

We will place each of the boxes in its own sacred circular mush-bath. The penalty for a non-compensatory religious oath is to be foiled in an attempted transition to modern scruples. It will be for the remaining ones to decide to express their deepest misgivings in a sharing community of likeminded nitwits. All the time we see them and wonder if they could be paid to escape a continuity procedure at our Nation's Airport. It  won't get any easier to 'go the distance' without first having checked to see if we still had a ride. A foothold in/on a bash is all we ever asked. Our plea to the President of the Carpenter's Union (Local 987) has gone unheard and now we are forever stuck with our eyes on a Premium Forecast with nothing to show for it whatsoever. Sometimes on days like this, it's not uncommon for your typical rando to loan someone a ballpoint pen, if only for a minute or so. No one should apologize for not being in a bit of a hurry. Them's the breaks! 

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Notes on a Holiday Luncheon.

 

Embroiled as we were in the drama of a Holiday Luncheon, we thought it wise to begin adjusting our group expectations to life in near-term containment. I felt constrained to tell the person I'm mad at to consider whether 'getting ahead' is worth all it's made out to be, especially in outlying areas. She would like to think about slamming a door near someone whose opinion I value, but since I've already attached a note to her bottom shelf, we've all agreed that problems could stop mounting once we get time to take a leak. This would be a strictly private function, as is sometimes the case.

Our group meets near a bridge during a month like no other. Our Leader, who goes by Bill Toomis (not his real name) has purposely lengthened the time it takes to reach a firm consensus. He ushers each of us onto a rounded scheduling platform and pretends to communicate through pre-verbal formulae. This involves the alteration of specified tissue, to tempt one or all of us to back out at the most inopportune moment. I make my best effort to insinuate that these types of enjoyment are of limited issue, but fail miserably, as can be seen in abandoned dress factories the world over. Why does it feel like I'm saying this inside a pure-blooded spring? I'll tell you why: because it isn't. That's why!

There's a lad who tags along sometimes—this is when, with all the Summer heat, we've had it up to HERE! I took his Dad aside and warned him, in no uncertain terms, that he had to enroll his son into another temporary program. Also, he needed to restrict the boy's intake, or get busted trying. He looked deep within me in an effort to appeal to my better nature. I slotted him in for a 2:00 PM rebuke. His wife brought in some chewy snacks, so we sat down near a tree in a Park not far from here. He showed me a picture of his adopted turtle.  I asked if he'd be willing to take my wife to the movies (she's handicapped). He told me that he  thought I'd never ask. I said 'what took you so long?'. He stared at me with a dull gleam in his eye, coughed, and went to sleep. I never heard from him again. What a prick!

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The Waning Days of the Brunk Adminigestion.

 

The Facts Can No Longer Be Denied.

 

It is now a well established fact that the one to whom I have given my word has taken it upon himself to utter a word all his own—not the one I gave him, I hasten to add—to a convention of cross-generational pollinators which took place in a monstrous circus tent on the outskirts of a major Southern metropolis of some note. The reason he thought this would be a good idea is still obscure but the repercussions have been severe. I have received multiple death threats on social media and all my appearances have been canceled through the Spring of 2025. I am looking to have him declared 'in violation' and reduced to a stark remnant concomitant to his absorption into a briny mallow solution. I am advised that this will not undo the considerable damage to over three million donated internal organs which had already had a rough go of it, what with the folks who already had skin in the game taking the wind out of efforts to induce enhanced persifilage in extra-mundane ebens.

The word that some people in a population of over-indulged runts is looking forward to using in florid sign language displays is in danger of hanging on faded tiskets, even while inherent meaning decays at a pace previously thought unlikely without industrial strength chemical spills. You'll take one to the gut and then you'll re-introduce a singing competition as if no one could get any wiser without the aid of a foreign faction. They will begin counting you into their triage and demand that you remove a lozenge from the inside of a ballsy hat trick. You will give them the satisfaction of an honorable bowel movement and think that this will 'settle the score'. Sorry, amigo. No can do.

I have personally witnessed each of my seven adopted convicted felons try, on evenings somewhat like this one, to recite a pledge to a remote homunculus and honor a flag blurring azimuth in our molten laundry sheath. They have given every indication that my failure to secure a bondage contract in a foresworn timeframe could only result in my removal to a desiccated room convenient to all major transition parks. The objection that I am allowed to raise hinges on my ability to adjust colorscales to meet the needs of developmentally delayed Oscar nominees. This is guaranteed to put anyone with whom I've shared even the most banal utterance into a position from which recovery is to be deeply feared, if not actively resisted. There will be a ketchum handle placed under your purview. A blind priest will oust the last sources of rare earth magnets from impudent fisheries. All told, nothing will satisfy like the hymn of a safely pre-mental Orinda. You will get what I've already paid for. If it's not to your liking, please take it up with a donated Pope. It pops!

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