The Bare Facts Aren't Open to Challenge.

 

We are always amused when an industrial object prevents its own natural tapering. A prospect in the offing isn't one in which our ability to count is challenged at each engagement. She looks to present a salient cocktail to members of an under represented cohort. Our languages may sound funny to the post-colonial ear, but we offer no apologies, save for a ceremonial mint exchange with a tireless do-gooder. He strikes us as a young man invariably will: about the neck and shoulders with a tartan bathrobe sash. The problem is, no one has ever mentioned the place he holds in our activated alert system. This would be 'real news' if it was ever revealed to our compromised elders. For now, they are apt to sit meaningfully in appropriated bargain bays and wait out the third coming of something—or someone!—for which their preparation leaves something to be desired, efficaciousness-wise. So sue me.

The blame is there for the taking, and so we do! But not before checking into a rehab facility for an afternoon therapy clod. The wife thinks it's all some kind of 'mumbo-jumbo' and, as for myself, attaching the wires is an irksome, if unrewarding, passel. If I press her strongly enough into the ass-end of a serving tray, she has promised to no longer betray me to the Subsidy Police. My silence ends when the last stalker is put to duty-rest in an evacuated solidity compound. I know what you're thinking. And, if that permits you to feel more than justified in scattering my remains at the tow pound, then have at it! It won't effect in the least how I tie myself in knots to straighten out some very devilish misunderstandings. Tell them I said 'hello'. You'll be sorry.

It is my wont to wear a beige pullover, iron-can slacks and a teal stowfer's cap. At the drop of a pin, I'll run in on all fours with the hope of securing the required paper bonnet to the optional penalty helmet. As per normal, she'll be crouched underneath the vanity bench. She claims to have found one of my older pictures in a now unsupported format affixed to the ductwork in our base-level structure. I'm forever struck by the modesty she displays when an unknown interloper begins a full-on cavity search. He'll cite overworked and underpaid facilitators and, before you know it, he'll be out like a light and I'll be able to re-arrange my ivory piglet statuettes on the mantelpiece in the garage. This will help us reach the ground running. I'll give her my paid time-off even though she may re-offend before I've had a chance to stake out a gerrymandered hectare. No one is saying it doesn't make a difference, is all I'm trying to say. Get out.

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