True Brotherhood Takes Many Guises.

 

Each of the brothers sits with me while he awaits his turn to observe a larger person take his chances on an imaginary field. The operation, as outlined in a defunct briefing packet, is one that we all feel sure will lead, in time, to a crucial anointing. Only the overseer is aware of the stakes at this moment. The rest of us are seen to weep quietly into small paper affairs provided for this very purpose. The middle one, Sarmy (not his real name), sits determinedly, hands athwart, tongue strictly under control, only the left eyebrow indicating the mildest of apparent discomforts. I take it all in stride and introduce him to Airport officials. They confide in me later that he stands to lose his place if control issues get the better of him. I let them know in an in-house release that their fluid retention could get in the way of our better natures seizing the day. From our enemies, no less.

So, as Sarmy takes his spot, breaches a false pond and announces to no one in particular that he's about ready to jump, I make sure that one of our most reliable techniques for trance induction achieves its end and he is now sufficiently pliable to allow the larger person needed scope for operational security (OPSEC). Once I've walked the required three miles to relieve our team, I'm informed that one or two of our minor Officials has gone missing. No one is expecting that any water will be used. Especially since it was only a conjured image. We have essentially never left the table where we started. I've always pronounced certain names with a not-so-obvious lisp. This was to help people get settled. For our part, my wife and I have maintained respectful relations with strangers-at-a-distance. When it became cooler in the yellow months, I would call her from out of state and ask whether anything would come in handy. She more often than not stayed 'mum'. I took that as a definite 'maybe' and took action accordingly. You can see the results for yourself. It can't be this easy

My penchant for ever-so-casual leadershit wiles has earned my Tribal Botnicks coveted positions on a rotating platform which we ignore at risk of our own incipient doom. The projectiles from on high often hit their mark. But even then I never fail to act the part of a fully inverted gentleman. Anyone who neglects to aver that my effort has achieved its end can now expect to be subpoenaed to appear in our dog-stripped cauldron. That may not be the end of it, though. But all of us, from the Perkins Board on down, are eager to demonstrate that chance procedures will sometimes earn one a place from which all bastardized stipulations need not raise even the flimsiest of cusses. You have our permission to try this  the next time you appear in our largest mirror. They don't make them like that for nothing. Yes.

______________________________ 

 

Sonic Peace Thud.

 

Michael Roper 5 · Peace Thud

Psyclantropismé en Fazhooq!

 

By now we've all been living quite comfortably with a churn rate approaching zero. The cum in our works begins to seep sweetly onto the vellum where even the most premature illustrations are sure to attract the notice of our weaponized Mother Hen. Yes, of course, she's known for sticking to her griddle but the padded ground beneath her treat never does not yield to pressure from a damning package. Three or more toddlinks to be gilded at cost will be certain to raise opportunity costs beyond sight of your lithe parquet moll. Incoming flags of convenience drape the slimmest lug while we live to see a day ingrained for nary a plop. Over my own field, any worker who holds a crab inside his nebular bullet is not one for whom bursting remains the least cogent option. The most recent tragic example appeared weakly in a dull red outercore. But, by dint of his market savvy, all his guest shots were underwritten by the Copatetic Lynchwood Collective. Their rates vary widely. What we can say is that once we've driven one or two miles, our steadiest clothing appears blarmy by comparison.

Some are afraid to notice that their own sense of inner psychic balance begins to fray noticeably from the stukenfrent outwards. In what has to be a stunting crown for all likely stewards, a show of hands during a rampage of cups portends the end of any sophisticated slope analysis. By their grams you shall know if your efforts will give way sleepily or not at all. Now that any card in question lands with a thud on a mistaken afterball, we can clearly see your face chewing itself into a fresh and fragrant splattern. Anyone will think you a worthy atomite. We, however, will know your secular pasture for what it is: a lasting tribute to an existence made scrolly for the purnid pince of lubberly failed woolen vessels. Even then, though, a treat to a well burnt offeratory may insure your placement within reach of any and all supernal tracking fronds. This cape becalms your fusion. But a landed, fanciful cuck can no longer adjust his cypher to engulf an entire season of widdles. It's baked in, is all we're trying to say. And now it's your turn to fray. Try to shake the ghost. Any feverish bovine might slake its only cost. From this we freeze. Now you. Then it.

_______________________________ 

Hydrogen Footprint as Personal Crisis: Let the Facts Be Heard!

 

Several of my less tainted colleagues have requested that I take a step back and invest some quality time in adjusting my hydrogen footprint into a more neutral, crowd-defying territory. Normally, in a case like this, I'd come at them with two fists blazing, but I had to admit that they made some good points. And some bad ones as well. I took to keeping lists of every time they were observed in the hallway. One time I caught one of the more flagrant abusers asleep underneath his car during a major work staffing perfuke. This got everyone's personal needles pinned to the red. I wasn't done yet, though. I knew where he kept his lozenges and arranged for one to go missing. This was time that he would never get back. But, all in all, there was still the nagging issue of my atrocious hydrogen footprint. Could I afford surgery? No, but this wasn't in the cards just yet.

I prepared an ambitious yet evasive series of counter-moves. I knew that my supervisor had allowed a suspicious liquid to be introduced into my sanctity bag. It was obvious from the way his shoulders stooped that he wasn't getting any younger. I invited him and his young wife to accompany me on a solo camping extirpation. They would travel in a third car and by the time we met up later near a dry creek bed, I'd spring my findings on them as if I didn't have a care in the world. I knew I'd get a rise out of them, but, sincerely, that's hardly the word that I would use. I'd use a very different word. One that'd have me eating paste for a week if anyone thought they knew better, which they did. But that's not the one I'm thinking of. For that you'd have to go all the way back to the beginning and calculate the odds of running into a stranger who sort of resembled someone you knew a very long time ago. Yes, it was that serious. I shit you not.

In the coming weeks I had my own rather baleful awakening and further resolved to go all in. When one of my more attractive pross-comps unveiled a lucrative proposal into a virtual feeding frenzy of probationary hypectors, it was more like barking up a barren tree than anything else I can think of. They were each given a sheet of paper and told to go wash up. I was the last one in the room so I took my good, sweet time. I took her hand tenderly in mine, and, very slowly, asked her just what the heck she thought she was doing. She turned tail, left the room, the building, the whole goddamned facility itself, for Christ's sake! I waited her out for the next three years and now I hear she's undergoing fertility treatments. If you couldn't look at her for more than five seconds, you'd think I was making this whole thing up! This is why I always maintain a selection of dots, each one corresponding to one of my named enemies. Any dot whose flavor starts to veer into acridity will tell me which 'average Joe' I have to keep an eye on. If it wasn't for this system, I'd have been out of here long ago. If you could humble yourself just a might, now would be a good time to say (or think) a simple 'Thank you'. You're welcome, I'm sure.

_________________________________ 

A Frank Confession.

 

I'm starting to have doubts about whether people who mention things to me are trying to send a secret message. I see them meeting during the remission at a mediocre concert. They look at each other like it was something they ate. Every now and then I'll offer one of them a piece of advice concerning their reliance on other services. Sometimes they'll shoot me down. Once in a while they try to pretend to be more open. It's a blessing in disguise, because, from the way I have them pegged, if I were to  introduce one and then another and even a third, fourth and so on, a complex series of trusts would need to be codified. In order to do that, I'd need a skin sample and a recording of their morning routine. This will take some doing.

To be fair, I've only started to enact this as a favor to my Father. He's a Rectilinear Director of the Comfort League. His name is traditionally very difficult to pronounce. Even from thirty thousand feet, you'd have to hand it to yourself. Any closer and you'd be a fool not to. Beyond that, it's a cheap shot at a fool's bargain. I won't go near the water again. This time of year the flavor just isn't right. When we come down into a leading valley, everyone can tell that more than one of us might need a helpful nudge. I'm all but out of it when my girlfriend is found hiding by herself inside a very large and very old hollowed out magnet. Her hair is usually 'to die for', but that day? Forget about it! There's just no way. Up till then I'd scraped her wrist raw with anticipation. Now everyone looked the same. Whether on the inside or the outside, it always comes up numbers. Sometimes there's even a sound. We all become suspicious. Especially the taller ones. Why? They always go first, you retard!

When I enter the room, it's always with a little flip. My training partner gives me a look and I take the hint. Normally I like to travel in pairs, but this time there's a bench I've got my eye on. Sitting pretty is how I like it. The fingers are placed near his ear. Good thing he doesn't sleep well or I'd need to use a nozzle. The first drop hits him like a ton of bricks. The next day we're no longer speaking. Instead, I decide to go with a 'blessing' strategy. He's prone to a milky discharge. During that last Winter, I could tell we never really had anything in common at all. By that time I'd already been sleeping in shifts at this other brute's house. And, just so you know, no, I've never been 'that' way. (This will serve you well.)

______________________________ 

 

Case Study No. 763: Notes and Comment.

 

When our patient comes to look for us, we are told to remain perfectly still. This will help her calculate her position by touch and smell alone. We believe that the woman who claims to be a surviving care-giver of the patient is, in fact, someone who we will be obligated to hold  liable for difficulties in our specimen bar. No one who has seen her walk in her characteristic hitch-free bombast is thought likely to last the night. If it wasn't for our floorperson, the stain which you can see with your own eyes would cut a vastly different figure than the one which currently holds our community in thrall. The overall feeling is that we need to arrange our things in a pattern to help us perform routine tasks if an alarm is sent from out of state. One of the very deficient providers has already signaled that he is ready to cut his lines to an outflow of calibrated emotional discharge. It might help us feel more in tune with our rubational habitat if one of more of her celebrated mini-series could be re-shot in their newly renovated basement.

You can see for yourself that no one who has contributed even several seconds of attention will any longer be afforded a luggable device. Especially since, behind their back, we have installed a brisk current indicator on each corner that you see marked with an invisible letter. A notable shade will enter people's voices and they will give renewed thought to unmasking quiescent opportunists in their very midst. It can send them into a downward spiral or aid them in their ascent into supernal states of false consciousness. Their own metallic instructors will guide them in their quest for never ending peril. Unfortunately this is not the case for some of our lesser parlour brats. For them, there is only one course, and it's not one that ends with any number you've ever heard of. It couldn't get any easier than this. But for others, sadly, that is no longer an option. Yes, you heard me right. This does not sound like the business I grew up in. It sounds like the other kind. You know the one I mean. Say it. Now.

_______________________________

Note to readers (HA!): Please be advised that this post

is number 300. This means that we are approximately

10% of the way to completion of 3,000 posts in the

projected series. At the current rate, this will take about

32 years. Please stay with us every step of the way!

___________________