Real-Estate Woes.

 

I've asked my adult-sized daughter to be on the alert for any hint that people are undermining a national sleep project on the grounds of a Tudor style unit which we've had a heck of a time unloading. It comes all marked up. Even the tatters are well suited to a fully grounded blood-type cohort. My First Deputy Violints Section Controller has rolled some logs up a hill and then gone on to see them donated to homeless families in the greater Newark, NJ area. It's not for nothing that he was given a prize just last year in recognition of his serious derogation. Only by the actions of a de-frocked provider was he able to grab some additional pills from an unattended register. No one is laughing anymore. Least of all some of our people on the ground. It just strikes us as very sad how, when you try to deliver a non-obvious consignment, it's more often than not translated into a third language. No one has the right to give someone the time of day and then retreat suddenly without explanation into a secret fort. What are they, twelve years old or something?

We've been living with an ironclad dis-impunity for years now. I see the way she walks in the local greenery and wonder why I never thought of that. In the meantime, it's the folks who, during daylight hours, use my bedroom as a temporary office, that I'm having trouble resolving serious boundary issues with. It's not enough that they've asked me more than once to take an interest in a terrible meal planning site, but now, everyone and his brother is saying that my hands, clothing choices, hair style and preferred vehicle mark me as someone of limited utility. When I catch the taller one rooting around my collection of collegiate sweaters looking for illicit disturbances, then I'll know that I'm not alone in this fight. The shorter one stays after class most nights and politely pleads for maybe a scrap of waffle or something. I already know that the boy's parents have vandalized a local synagogue. What I need to know now is how to translate my concerns so that those in the upper rungs of the industry will investigate an obese money manager named Scott Loomis.

The vacation home we've been promised comes tricked out with all the latest appurtenances. There's lo-boy rider on the electric toothcomb. Even the lip of the sunken dairy-pad is detailed with onyx derivatives. Each primping station has its own timer to facilitate candid dialogue among hirsute resuscitation theorists. The First Gentleman has made it plain that he no longer intends to forestall a lapyroscopic clamping procedure. I myself gave it a go just last week, and you know what? Exactly! And what's more, there's a certain specialized knowledge just now emerging with even the vaguest hint of hypnopompic dread. I don't know about you, but I regard that as a 'win-win' proposition. Furthermore, if anyone feels in any way 'saddled' by addtional infirmary beauties, maybe they could try holding one of the witnesses under the surface for just a bit longer. At least until a promise to 'make good' is delivered with full frontal nudity, if that. What I want to know is: just why hasn't anyone thought of this before? That's a good guess. Did you come up with that all on your own?

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