How NOT to Get Caught Off-Guard.

 

The sentiments expressed in the opening letter raised expectations three-fold. I had been administered the standardized tests and came up short. So much so, in fact, that I wasn't sure where—or even if!—I'd be able to put my shirt on, even if a table were to open up before dawn the next day. Once we got through reading said letter in the customary circular formation, people began turning toward the rear wall in search of inanimate emotional support. That's where we used to hide the little trinkets they brought with them from 'the outside' on that day long ago when they insisted on being scooped up, of their own accord, in stately columns, wringing what remained of their hands and paying tribute to the inevitable 'guest host du jour'. We call 'em as we see 'em. But no one ever said it'd be easy, is all I'm trying to say.

So, we rounded the corner and now the angular witlash succumbed to an orderly process whereby I would escort each one into a mottled waiting pen until the nitrogen tanks arrived from our Bangkok affiliate. Inside the tiny furnaces, they were allowed, as if by some kind of musical infirmary code, to freely think of any topic under the Sun and then come to a conclusion sure to raise the ire of the pre-industrial forestry management pinheads on site from Day 1. I sat with my front facing the back of the Hall and silently counted the Blessing Chips I'd been corralled into keeping moist so as not to bring a duty transfer down on my upper segment. When Brenda Seatcover motioned to me from across the way, I realized that I'd forgotten the all-important grinding slot which was to be my ever-present companion in the weeks leading up to our species-specific ingestion prolapse.

I 'just knew' that Brenda needed a good talking-to. So, I arranged to have her charged with third degree burglary so that she'd have an excuse to travel overseas in a matter of seconds. Meanwhile, my wife's parents had been blocked from entering our desert stronghold just in the nick of time. With that in mind, I moved some pieces of finely grained teak service-potties into position just outside Departure Gate 12 at O'Hare International Trolley Wigwam. There, my former 'best friend', Chuck Stewart, had set up a rolling delay pattern to throw folks off balance just enough so we could credibly aver that no one had remained uncounted while we duked it out with a trio of magnetic specimens. The first one was over in a flash. The second one sported a collection of articles from Sports Illustrated affixed to his ozymandinus jumper. The third was the last to go but he insisted on mis-pronouncing my name. Not just once, but over and over and over. With that, we knew that he couldn't be allowed to move forward. His dunking license was removed from his glove box and I made him swear that he'd never been invited in the first place. And this is where we sit now. Is anyone surprised? Or, is that too much to ask? You're the one with all the answers, so please, just GO THE FUCK AHEAD! 

___________________________