The Hazards of Driving Naked.

 

When the man, who usually wore a brown coat (but not this day), pelted our car with raw bumps, my sisters and I had every hope of living to see a time when we could adopt a scattershot approach. In the past I would always feel comfortable in lime-green tights, but something in the way the majority moved with nuanced stealth had me think twice about choices which were mine alone to make. The air in our home is enough to insure propriety for the long term and even though the dogs normally rest between shows in the corner of our blending room, I can't help but feel saddled with false accusations of micro-aggressions in the period leading up to a sanctioned activity module. Sometimes it doesn't even come when you least expect it, is what I was trying to tell you all along. Instead I bit my tongue, among other things. Chief among them being a Plenary Dialogue Ringtab Sheet. I still don't know where I put it. As if that really matters to people like you. Don't lie.

There are some who claim that one in five Stability Zones is apt to be primly tampered with. The through-line which we taught you to respect now leads in only one direction. You could imperil our decisive accomplishments with your nightmarish choices of casual attire. We sit and we wait. Then we get up and walk very slowly to the crack in the rim. This is where you can see them lying, all of a piece. Notecards circulate without any drama whatever. I keep my own wads underneath a leaky post. When the last one is almost used up, I fill my crib with a tabletop stint. I promise all the girls to hold off until we can each meet separately with a man named Jeremy Milner. This is the guy who featured prominently in the account I passed off to you in the parking lot of the Old Dutch Theater. Even though you gave me 'that look', for like the billionth time, I still can't help remembering how overweight your brother used to be before he broke the news to my folks. They've never been the same since. And, quite frankly, neither have I.

There's a basic comfort level in leaking these details to the general public, and not for the first time. Each of the folders I prepared are sitting right where we knew they were all along. With the help of our three youngest surgical nurses, we aim to arm ourselves with all the latest (and lamest) denials. That should keep them for the rest of the week. I can only hope to train my fire on the last living iteration of a solidified push-over. You'll know him by the way he braces himseif for an impact which never comes. Once the oil lamps are positioned on the pompoon, I'll check my hair for innoculated riblets. Then we'll take turns coaxing a sly turncoat out of his fetid squat. More than anything, it's obvious that I've let down our bravest exemplars without even having to shush them. And, when they do that, I'll know that my work is done. At least until I can arrange a three-day, all expenses paid holiday at the Old Sarleytown Youth Festival for you and your children. But please, don't bring this up when we're walking casually through you-know-where. It could be the end of 'something beautiful'. You have my word.

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