One of My Fondest Capers.

 

Our teachers are the only people we sing to from beyond a burning car. I stretch my legs and return to the town in a way which seems earlier but, in fact, is not. Not for nothing is the one who beams at me leaving a lot to chance. The kinds of characters he's been known to play are said to court trouble by the trunkload. I give him my broadest hand-wiping tool and require nothing but the barest pittance to keep my boat inside a secret towel. It will help us get started if we resolve to never have words in the days to come. He gives me that look which says, 'I'm never coming home'. There will be some younger drunks who escape detection and go on to earn substantial asset forfeiture. I've whispered about their exploits in my sleep. The whole neighborhood enjoys looking in my window while I read. I treat them to a nice chippy. Now they're all in the hospital. It serves to show them the proper mode of conduct. I've slept with over half of them. And no, it was in no way any kind of 'day at the beach'.

With my trusty Paul Phillips knife in hand, I appear well suited to the challenges inhering in a strategy of total avoidance. The controversial stands for which I'm known can now be abandoned because there's nothing left to lose. There will be those holding down positions near our dubiously gated factory farm. The relative ease with which I ask their names was passed down to me from famed attorney F Lee Bailey. After I became pregnant at the hands of his temporary driver, I was seen entering a building with a person of Middle Eastern descent. We agreed to split our share of the proceeds 5-to-1 and leave it at that. Now that I have been appointed to an Honorary Position, I will need to assemble a coterie of dumbstruck 'pantieboys' to hide my laundry inside an obsolete bakery operation. The head man there is a guy named Vince Herbert. He has short brown hair and usually wears a lime-green sailing parka. He's allergic to tomato juice, though not to actual tomatoes themselves. There's only one piece of advice: Just do the math.

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This Is Only Superficially About 'Teasing'. (Can anyone guess?)

 

I took to teasing the woman who stood next to me in line at the Waffencourt Piladeys. In a roundabout way she reminded me of some of the younger members who used to stand guard while I disciplined one or two of the local pet creatures. The way she moved though, put me in mind of a clueless immigrant being newly positioned. I could tell that in her off-moments she liked to dance by herself in front of a dull, reflective appliance. You know the kind I mean, right? No? I mean the ones that seem to hum with their own sub-tonic frequencies. If no one else hears it, you just might think that a sanctioned visit to a person could be in your future. On the other hand, if you're just one part of a larger group, then resting easily with smug satisfaction  could go on to become your 'lot in life'. I'll be sure to mention if 'boldness' becomes a virtual thing for me. As for the others, you have my distinct sympathy. Why risk it?

What I would do is, I'd move the fingers of my left hand quickly back and forth near her forehead without touching it. With my right hand I'd do patented strengthening exercises so that she'd believe that I was pretending to hypnotize an acquaintance in a nearby shelter. Once when I did that, she made it a point to shudder at just the wrong moment. It was wrong because I was forced to lose my composure and thus any chance to win her fleeting affections on a part-time basis, if that. I think anyone reading this should consider a career in militarized policing operations the world over. Because the one thing that I've never doubted is that the respect you earn is roughly equivalent to the time you spend in our Nation's breadbasket. If you've ever wondered about the origins of Danish Funnelcake, then I think we can finally see eye-to-eye.

Once I got her into my room back at the base, she claimed—falsely as it turned out—that I might have been involved in a junior penalty mixture. Also that there was a spot on my upper part that shined, which couldn't have been true because it was well covered over at that time, just in case. I looked at her like a spoiled child and gave her one last chance. It was now or never. Up until that time we'd never spoken, only had dinner in separate rooms. It was after our third visit to a seaside arena that she revealed her secret number. Are you ready? It was seven-hundred and sixty-four (925). This indicated that she had a truly soft personality. All I can say is, 'you could've fooled me!'

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New Trends in Automated Headgear.

 

The cloth wrap-around, which I'm told risks frightening the neighbors' children, adapts snugly to my cranium and gives all the best accents for a time of conflict. Any boldness that I try to exhibit during events which teeter provocatively, is certain to not fail me as long as the head is well soothed, the stations are rapt and attention is finely calibrated to avoid the misunderstandings which can foretell menacing consequences. We try to drink from the same cup in more ways than one. My own personal 'Sergeant' seems to prefer basking even though breaks-in-the-action are sure to be enjoyed only by the weakly nestled. Within what—or whom?—are we justified in placing our trust? This is a question which goes to the very core of our entrapment roster. Please be it ever so kind to offer the hand of truth in a tsunami of flagrancy.

The shift is on and the People of Bount are set to be asked to function as a type of filter. They will be charged with quizzing the naysayers and scoping their preparations for an 'all-points' alert. This is typically expected when a ground-breaking assertion with respect to those who scale the heights of societal esteem is voided at the very last minute to suit the needs of the corpulent few who reside at the apex. We know it can't be helped if one of the most derided pillars looks into occurrences on the upper floors of a spartan structiure last seen during the first week of Easter. With friends like these, it can take more than a few hours to preserve a scenic route from an arcane trapping crew. They come from multiple directions. I hear that they've got a scale model hidden in their luggage. That doesn't mean, though, that I want to see them get bogged down—or maybe even die!—in any old desert. Far from it, in fact.

People who are partial to being seen as immune to the wiles of victim-shaming Postal Carriers should watch what they've been designed to eat at curbside tablatures. Our resting pulse engages at the final moment and even though our postural defects are well hidden, a brace for our tumult is far from useless if a house-bound vagabond feels the urge to share one of his most salacious pescaturios. We will crouch behind a wall and speak quietly about our private shame. Not one of us is known for taking an entire day to gin up a malodorous mob. Any tricks will accrue to our eternal benefit. This is how we live for success in numbers. What is the number? The number is three hundred and forty-three. Live with it.

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Sonic Slit Patterns.

 

Michael Roper 5 · Slit Pattern Vortuns

Everything You Need to Know About 'Bril'.

 

There was always a fellow who stood by himself at our irregular woodsy gatherings. I was told by a cousin to call him Bril. Whether or not that was his name doesn't make any difference since he died not long ago. When he would arrive at my place for our daily meeting, he had the habit of sitting in a solid chair which had his legend engraved right across one of the iron slats. I would always act like I didn't notice and go out into a nearby hallway. I'd pretend to get a drink of water and then leave for the night. Later on, I would listen in on a gathering of forlorn Chaplains. They had a habit of complaining to no one in particular. Sometimes I'd consider leaving my hiding place for good but usually I'd come away feeling that I was correct in not doing so. Some of them had a wicked temper. Even so, I felt that they respected the course that I'd chosen for my life and that of three of my four children. About the rest, it's quite important not to form an opinion etched in proverbial stone. Why? It could come back to bite you, that's why. But I think you already knew that. It takes one to know one, is all I'm trying to say.

The one and only time Bril left a package in my anteroom, I could have sworn that his hands smelled like mineral wax. Out of the corner of my eye I'd sometimes see him fooling with a small bit of string. I never knew where the string came from or what he was doing with it. One thing I did know though was that throughout the previous Summer, he'd pretend to believe that I only had 'some college' under my belt when the fact was, I had a full Associate's Degree in biological nucleonics. This became a sore point between us. I took to sabotaging his prospects with the County Board. I have to admit this gave me a secret thrill. I'll never understand where his sense of 'inner purpose' came from, if not from his years on the Lutheran Volley Ball circuit. Now that I myself have been released from all waivers, it's apparent that the time has come to put certain things behind me. That with which I choose to do so stands a good chance of occupying more than a little of my remaining time on this planet. I've always had a soft spot for our potential future in Outer Space. In the meantime, I've resolved to do my part to aid in the reconstruction effort. One can only dig so many holes before they long to see the other side. Please don't think this applies to you because that would not be true. Fuck you.

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Is Now the Right Time to Post This?

 

There's a long time passenger of my Uncle's who everybody thinks—and says quite openly—is big for his size. Often trouble is at a minimum when he comes through during the week. But, if it's a Saturday, Sunday or a Holiday, people feel the need to post a notice in a nearby hallway to the effect that, anyone just passing through, no matter how innocently, can expect to have their movements recorded—analyzed even. To this day I still haven't figured out why this makes any sense. Say I was leafing through some papers and needed to relieve a sensation in my opening, would that lead to an armed response? Am I, or is anyone else for that matter, especially the aforementioned passenger, within our rights to be feeling more than a little concerned? It aches to have to prove yourself over and over for the benefit of the chosen few. They say it doesn't make them stronger. I say they're full of shit.

When I replace some of the parts in what passes for one of your larger devices, I can always count on getting stared at by someone who thinks that their convenience is one of my personal 'Ten Commandments'. What they don't get is that I've spent my whole life getting used to the mild burning sensation which most folks take for granted. What makes them think that I have the time to get them involved in an involuntary seating plan? In the end, there's no choice anyway. By the time they've been entered in my booklet, most of the air has been sucked clean out of the room, metaphorically speaking , of course. And if I have anything to say about it, no one is going to get bawled out for something they can't help. However, when people believe they've been cheated out of the best years of their lives and that partially chewed food has been distributed in their name, can anyone blame them for 'blowing a gasket'? No one thinks so. Not even me. Because, after all, I'm the guy who did it!

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A Brief Note On My Time at the Pace Electrical Foundation.

 

To be quite candid, the Pace Electrical Foundation is where I've always made my bones. And now, due to the fact that our facility is located on the periphery of a 'conflict zone', my team and I are being moved to a secure area with neither windows, walls, floors or ceilings. I am asked to seem abrupt and dismissive. The sweaters that I've worn for years are admired for their destructive potential. On this day, when I waltzed through the cafeteria, I was pulled aside, wrestled to the ground, and asked to stay after to receive a briefing from the head of our Dismissions Department. When I met with him in the cellar near the water heater, he told me that he thought I'd never ask him why I was told to meet with him.  I replied that I considered his every move to be part of a larger strategy to induce me to appear more life-like during subsequent years of struggle on the Fourth Continent.

When I thought about it later I realized that he never once felt free to mention my confrontation with his ex-wife at a vaccine distribution center when she tried to buttonhole me and have me run off the reservation with no further questions asked. I knew that if I called attention to the way his hands hung limply at his sides while he made the most outrageous accusations, I could be looking at an experimental surgical procedure at the very least. Once I cut loose some folks I'd been playing ball with since the prior 8th of August festivities, I knew that whatever irons still took up room in my space heater would have to be shared with my deliberative cronies, or else I'd be the first to cry 'uncle!' and make life unlivable for the vast majority of post-pubescent proxy warriors. This could not be permitted to happen. I didn't want to lose a small piece of metal even though I was sure that some of the other parts would turn up without anyone being any the wiser.

When I think about it now, I can't help but see that I went about this all wrong. My first mistake was to ever trust the common sense of your 'average Joe'. Once I had purloined the table from the hallway, I felt that I was literally 'this' close to achieving a long sought position as a Hosiery Encirclement Trabent. Those who knew what to do about invisible people were the kind of experts who could make my grade something to be proud of. Instead of hanging my head, I decided to raise my kids on a farm. One or two of us have been called many things, but never 'grouchy'. We hope to see the rest of you once we've succeeded in priming the paint in our Den. You won't like what you see, but when has that ever stopped you from living out of your best self? Like, never?

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Yet Another Cautionary Tale (this means YOU!).

 

The one time that I took her inside a comfort station, she decided to make her opposition known in a way that failed to impress. Her sister had made it clear to me that under no circumstances should I allow her to hide one of the papers that we'd been duty-bound to protect. The points made during my recent absence from the Farmcast were held over our heads and we had no choice but to restrict her movements to loping within a quarter-mile radius of a salt mind that had yet to open in a field on the periphery. I held her hand as we entered the office. She wore a bluish top-heavy cardigan and I wore my customary plumber's outfit, sooty die-coms adrift as regulated in sightline-adjusted permiglia.

Once I began to lower the pressure in her left ear, she felt free to inch ever closer to the Eastern cave wall, which is right by the Nerty extrusion. Trays of puffs were proffered. We read from a book chained to a desk. I lifted my mask so that everyone could see the scar I've had since I was a baby. A train whistle sounded in the distance, but several of the runyons present made it obvious, without actually saying so, that it was only a recording to help us feel that our time had finally come. I looked at her hands as I'd been instructed and saw that they were indeed infected. Any time a reading is taken on a pleasure center, those of us on the pad will nod knowingly and pretend to go about our business and refuse to play the game. This will give our appointed stalwarts a few minutes to hide in a forested pavilion about a mile and a half up the road. To say we were scared would be to give us undue credit in a time of tedious betrayals.

When Paul Rutin held a perfunctory banner at chest height and began to intone the Braggart's Mantra, we knew we had at most four and three quarters seconds to abscond with the only dietetic almond brush on the property and make scarce like a newborn infant in a Parker Hillsbie movie. This meant that I had to apply a layer of copper gel to her anterior ulna so that we could both fit inside even though the lid was constructed of perforated nickel-oxide flume. At that moment, I got a call from one of the people I'd been considering castigating since Day One. He told me that I needed to be seen entering an Irish-Buddhist Temple in a dream scenario cooked up by some of the guys downstairs. Yes, I did put my foot down. On a very uncomfortable place, I might add. He asked if I'd gained any weight. I told him that his Dad had ruined my graduation ceremony by purposely sitting in a restricted area. We agreed to disagree. I still see him around town from time to time. And I guess it might not shock you to know that he's starting to color his hair. I think I'm about to be sick.

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Stunning New Details About My Wife's Fitness Program.

 

The chimes which we sometimes see outside our bedroom window were a gift from Nathan Paul's widow, Maggie Strauss. Her involvement in my wife's fitness program has caused a lot of problems around here for the last couple of years. She would arrange for my wife to place one foot on a chair and hold it there for up to three hours at a time. This was time that we just did not have, as I was already arranging to have some of the excess equipment in our Bonner's Den shipped to a floral design show from which an undetermined number of prisoners had escaped at the direction of our support staff. I'd always believed that they had it in for our 'kind of people' since we were of an alternative ethnic extraction. The individual who was in charge of keeping both of us confined was a known person and, quite frankly, no one liked the look of this whole situation.

Once I resolved to get to the bottom of this, I came to see things in a way which helped me re-adjust my personal temperature. We all had a deep conviction that color coördination in personal attire could give one a new perspective on the benefits of 'belongingness'. If you're anything like me, you've probably never heard or read that word before. That was just the position I was in when I waltzed into an unremarkable office on Strand Road in the waning months of 2017. I still carried a tiny isotropic spring concealed in my right hemtock and, even though my paperwork was thoroughly up to date, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was about to be exposed to a very strong blow-back from society-at-large. The trouble was, no one felt they could trust me to mishandle their affairs properly without an in-depth psychomantic evaluatory problem raising its ugly head and screaming for a 'tip-of-the-nod'. Now I was in deep. How deep wasn't clear until March 13, 1987. That was the day that I received a one-word reply to a question that I was too shy to even formulate, let alone speak aloud in a voice which wouldn't betray my salty character to any of the scouts that I'd assaulted. This is what finally moved me to start coloring my hair. And no, it was NOT pretty. Not by a long shot.

After my two younger brothers were arrested by Canadian Authorities on a series of folded warrants, the weather changed abruptly and we had to sell some scraps in our shell to make payroll, if nothing else. My wife started to act very aloof, withdrawn, moody and obese. I couldn't shake the impression that her hand gestures while walking the dog were starting to  make more than a few of our priority neighbors nervous, ill at ease and downright ponderous. Each of my devices failed in turn. Finally I was down to a thirteen year old cigarette lighter, a ranger flashlight with low batteries and an electric circus wand. The only I way I felt safe asking for help was from a hillside during the lower hours. My son asked if he could come along. I told him it was for his own good. He accidently-on purpose set my shirt on fire. I enrolled him in the youth hockey program sponsored by the Police Athletic League. Anyone interested in receiving mail-in payments should contact me pronto! (That means 'right away') 

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