Averting Your Eyes Won't Solve a Thing!

 

The chain for which I risked my life is—just now!—in the office of a pockmarked genius who thinks he's got the world sewn up by the skin of its teeth. I've been with him on multiple occasions when things got out of hand. He makes it a habit of turning to my next-of-kin and testing their stability in a time of crisis. I've known for quite a while that if one of us ever gets lost in the Florida Everglades, all we have to do is sit motionless in a moonlit clearing and submerge one or more devices in a serviceable cider tank while back in town no one will think twice about bracing for a societal inversion. They prefer to appear more vivid if the color scheme in the original tent focuses on a magenta tamarind chord. The children of my third standard-bearer in as many epochs have stated quite boldly that they will see to it, single handedly if needs be, that a display case for colonial parchments will be put at the disposal of a peculiar gentlemen from North of the border. When you hear us cry like teenage babies, then you'll know that more of them are on the way.

I'm always being warned not to bracket my default mode network in the type of cheesecloth for which some of my more insouciant colleagues repel such unjustified upbraiding. Each has been asked a series of pertinent questions. One by one they fall to the side and I'm the one left to pick up the pieces and send them off to a re-glueing operation down on Interstate 1191.  When I get back from busting my nuts in the hexagonal reception gulch, you can bet your bottom dollar that some wiseguy will think it's a great idea to transform some of the least among us into 21st Century meat finders. There's just no going back when you see where fat comes from. From the way their hair is adjusted on a bi-weekly basis, some might infer that half the battle is far from won. Now that we sit in your reserved box, does anyone think it wise to go on plundering national plenaries in search of a cobbled together shit-ticket? From what I've seen, no one who currently resides on one of the roofs in my neighborhood would seek cover if their names were ever published topside.

You can alert me all you want, but, if you go on to invent the kind of filtration system which uses no monotonous source of powder, then one or more of my mentors might find it necessary to (figuratively speaking) stab you in the back just when you're about to turn in your paper. They quite specifically warned us in 38th Term that people who are officially designated by a multi-lingual trap sign are to be taken to the inflection point of jihadi suction grunts. In other words, please stop placing an errant hand near an oblique service entrance to a rear-guard activity swamp. If you know what's good for you, you won't let this opportunity go to waste while we settle our final affairs in the battle of life. We'd like to help you get back on your feet but there just doesn't seem to be any sensible way to do that without raising red flags in the dustbin of mystery. Could you be any more rude?

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