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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