Supply Cabinet Baubles.

 

Every object in our supply cabinet is fretfully labeled against the day which is due to arrive, ..well... any day now. I am cautioned about dragging her down to my own steadfast level, and, if anyone finds that hard to believe, where can I meet you in the coming weeks? You see, sometimes a name is purposely put forward or a hand may be exposed to an esoteric light source. Now and then, even some of your closest acquaintances privately admit to having once crossed a line. You could be forced to have them relocated to a little used staging area to go over each detail until it is precisely fixed in their limited scope of attention. Even those who merit a display case of their own, are very often not above seeking to draw away the fruits of indigenous wisdom from those whose insolent phantasms power the somnific grumblings of broadshouldered wusses. They have my symphony, they truly do.

The pain of open storage isn't something to be whispered about with newly arrived appointees. From their headbands it is apparent who is intent on staying the full weekend. The others view this as a trifling affair whose only point is to settle in and wait for blood. There won't be any in the water this time, though. We've made sure to include some rather barbarically intuited flood measures to even out the levels between areas of no reception and living with one's parents until it's time to hit the showers. Anyone who's been tasked with rigging a conveyance for maximal truth-instantiating palaver, is now asked to respond with a unique ten-digit compliance code or face certain retaliation at the behest of the Wife of the newly disgraced Director-General. There is no scorn like that of an individual who feels that he or she might have been treated less than tolerably at some time in the distant past. Far be it for me to apply my waning cynical acumen to those trained in the arts of gracious living.

Even those who feel recursively entitled to have a signifying bell rung on their behalf at hourly intervals are sometimes spied hosting annual festivals for credulous moffits. And, when they do, it always strains what's left of our right-brained spirit of two-handed clerbity. Because, when you get right down to it, no one who has ever accompanied us to a viewing opportunity should be surprised by the lengths to which our brethren will sink to gain entrance to an abandoned medieval fortress. We observe from afar, pick our favorites and don't think twice about encouraging the management of false accounts. It only takes one, you know? And, not only that. In the final analysis, who could be better situated to conceal one of our Nation's noblest disgraces from the prying eyes of inoculated pompettes the world over? It wouldn't be a surprise to anyone if this was something which never garnered much consideration from those whose primary feeding ground is the 'Lower Order'. Without whom it could never see the inside of Gate 2 at best. I'll be waiting with my three daughters after midnight in the rain. Is this what you want?

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