Folkloric Specification Outline.

 

There's an unusually wide stretch between where I left my Mohican venatar and the ancestral levitation points upon which our lythrex is placed for maximal credulity. They will shave time off their bruising shift only if I agree to position the second wand in the place where instructional mansards fear to plead. It's a matter of all the holes in a deck being infinitesimally punctured with suitable fronds from an Ivy League traitors' pit. After which only three of us will no longer be tempted to extract a pulsinary car patch from the rear-facing Choctaw of Loudon's tainted bulge. Even the name, with its characteristic pattern of 'uhs' and 'ahs', is slated to induce your final cooperation with our District Chiding Bomb. Just don't tell our kids that we've left the house in the hands of rubber-stamp do-gooders with an agenda in the single threes. The littlest one is, quite frankly, bored with our needle-print embezzlement scenes. Who can blame her? It's not like she hasn't been trained to pretend to not breathe for one out every sixty-one seconds flat. Almonds are an environmental disaster. Why do you ask? I know.

When coming to in a strange house, garage, elevator, convenience mart, office segment or ball field, it might make the most sense if you demand an immediate apology. If no one offers to help set up a crowdfunding campaign, you could follow my lead and get the current figures from a delicious operator. In the event that one isn't handy, could you even CONSIDER imitating an invisible animal and then take emergency steps to remove all straps from sensitive faphangers the world over? It says right here in my Champeen Book that a fluffy noodling motion, applied at roughly six-month intervals, could secure you a place in a very secretive floating dyad without the husband ever waffling on his initial statement. And, you know what? I have a not-so-funny feeling that goes double for the dingbat of the house. Just please don't get me started. I might have a coronary. You started it. I'm serious.

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Does This Constitute Evidence?

 

The woman who received my sample via the US Postal Service has expressed to me not a little consternation about what seems to be an ongoing campaign of contamination. I've tried on numerous occasions to console her while simultaneously placing her vehicle in an anonymous receivership for which the only remedy is a one-on-one pro-comp with one of our more outspoken doomsayers. To call him 'verbose' wouldn't be wrong by half, if that. In fact, when you get right down to it, it seems that he's just 'wired wrong' in all the ways which will count toward his eventual release. By which time I will have already packed my bags for fonder pastures. No one ever seems to count the grooves, even when unvisited shafts come to the fore, shrinkage or not.

So, we met at a coffee shop here in town. She brought with her a measly selection of self-selected treats, all the while making like she was doing me a favor. I took it in stride but couldn't help myself when it came to pointing out where her bread was buttered and exactly who would end up being the butt of all the puerile insinuations swirling about us like a headwind buffeting an extirpated stipend. She removed a framed photo of an old flame from the folds of her ample bosom and proceeded to go into an extended song and dance as to the provenance of said photo and why I should care in the first place. Only years later, when I eventually took her maladaptive brother under my wing did the truth finally reveal itself. I felt no shame in scoffing, but at the same time I knew that one day soon, a person on the verge of a nervous breakdown would enter my life as if from nowhere and that nothing would ever be the same.

There is a paper about the same size and shape as her head which, rumor has it, contains important clues to the ultimate disposition of an ongoing inquiry. This paper is said to exist in multiple forged versions, the only genuine article having taken form as a classified ad in the Chicago Tribune from August 12, 2011. I was presented with a copy of that very edition during a rough patch I experienced while seeking closure for an unprovoked attack on my motives, character, appearance and overall rectitude. When I say that I didn't find anything remotely amusing about the way he shoved me into a lamp post while I struggled to get my footing in foreign terrain, I don't for one minute think that my account will raise any sort of red flag at all. In fact, were I a betting man (and I'm not, just to be clear), I wouldn't find it at all difficult to force some lesser prelates into an improvised clearing and have my way with their paltry duffel bags. It takes one to know one, but this time I've got the goods on all their sorry asses and there's not a goddamned thing they can do about it! Is this getting through? If not, I can wait in the car until you get a reading.

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Timely Advice for Reluctant Hemophobes.

 

If ever one of your recently deposed siblings enters a dwelling in a neighboring state, intent on pushing his or her luck into unexhumed territory, you might think about following up with our corporate wing to see what arrangements can be made. One of the saddest times in anyone's life is when they find a rickety contract nurse concealed within a passage adjacent to a terrifyingly tempting package. In the event that a person of limited means is accused of 'going through the motions', you can send them my way for some genuine faux-fatherly advice. We could even go on a lunch date down below as long as someone gives us a heads-up about ongoing deficiency nightmares. The dupe of our local Parsonage is likeable enough, as long as you can get around the way he positions himself on your typical workday morning/afternoon. Yes, you heard me right: I need everything there is to see which contorts a little-used Army flood.

Only one so shy as to comment out of turn during a Bakersfield, CA labor dispute can be relied upon to file fictitious ghost accounts with the Hazelton, PA Numismatic Society. I myself once instructed such an individual and found the experience less than satisfying, to say the least. On the other hand, what would you have me do if something I once tried on was roundly panned by a person of great influence over Statewide arts funding? They'll go with you to see a bridge being demolished but they can't spare the time it takes to enumerate all the benefits of premature hold-ownershit. Whenever I see them exiting a cocktail party with their hands forcibly restricted, then I'll know that we've turned a major corner when it comes to interpersonal threat folderol. You might want to think about establishing a scholarship fund for returnees from the Eastern Theater. It may also be a good idea to wipe the God-forsaken smirk off of what passes for that 'face' of yours. Just sayin'....

At first light, I buffed her balm and then headed in a general direction. She had repeatedly warned my handlers not to investigate my reliance on over-the-counter calory counters. It seems that I'd stepped on a few toes and had the receipts to prove it. What she didn't know then, and he most definitely knows now, is how sad we all felt upon completion of our final mortuary signpost. It marked the beginning of a new chapter of our failure to accede to a Hidden Power. In case you'd like a clue, it rhymes with a little used entrainment format in our National Blood Guild Convention. They could've seen it from miles away. Instead, they sat with their hands folded primly looking for all the world like Earth's most recalcitrant Punk ensemble. If I went on to elaborate the properties of their primeval goo, you'd feel obligated to nominate my dimpetologist for the Forerunner of the Decade Award. But I will say this: he doesn't take kindly to the way you 'do up' the widdle dollies in your Masterpiece Collection. He says it just doesn't fit with your overall fashion imperative. And, you know what? I'm inclined to agree, as much as it goes against every bone in my fiber. What?

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Family Comes First.

 

My family and I have always made it a priority to take great care as we walk through the seventy-one pre-nescient fields which border our proximity to a vastly overblown urban conglomerate. This is what allows us to extoll great fear in situations where the discomfort level is mild, if that. Our son, Harvey Jr. will spend isolated moments slicking back his hair before making his exit for a single-file affair. The Regents have expressed concern that he might talk out of class, even as his chance to outwit a community enemy takes a beating on the open market of transparently false option-huggers. Their odor generally precedes them by a mile or more, and by the time Little Harvey has scraped his shield clean off a local roof, a steel-dyed zinc marker is apt to be placed directly in his line of sight. Even if no one of consequence shows up at our annual buffet, some lucky numbnuts could be looking at a major two-figure settlement. And, that's before we add in the taped vespers, with all that implies.

I think I might just stand there in my chapel tunic and call out one or two names which have appeared erroneously in my lockbox back at the ranch. She will testify that I balefully restricted myself to staring directly, and with zero provocation, at her somewhat ordinary feet. Further, she will be tasked with finding a rental property near an impassable pond in the Southern New Hampshire exclusion zone. There I will present to her surviving relatives a reflective bauble which was hand-crafted during an Estonian prison riot in the late 1950s. As we near the completion of the preliminaries, I'll beg off any additional involvement so that I might spend more time looking into secret agreements among disaffected family members of former Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor. You have my word that I will do my best to fend off any snarling attacks on my manboobs. No one ever said that there wouldn't a price to be paid. But I just did. Sue me.

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The Truth Speaks for Itself.

 

No one here believes that if a person hides in their bed from an expert prevaricator, anyone will be better off for having made up, and played down, a curious round of circular bannerisms. For, what would it get you, if, on alternate second days, only a grim willingness to enfold a stranger in a sheer night-tail could help us determine at what time or place an involuntary meditation would be in order? She helped each us to calmly approach the newly-minted Associate Rector and describe the appearance of his eyes to the recently released. For them, the strain of particularity is needlessly acute. Our only oily statue is the one they yearn to encrust. The flavor of the matter does not ever escape the co-efficient of paralegic thrust powder. This is why we caution all serious newcomers to wipe their friends beneath a corner of our ranked outfit threnody. You have this.

We have been given to understand that the way the fabric lays upon this or that unidentified box-like subject could set the scene for a rival occurrence. Why is it that some people seek to have us believe otherwise? They would be better suited to be placed on a stage where no staircase is in the offing. However, if they cling, one and all, to a sedimental bookstall and think nothing of memorializing the warping of time in the company of intractable plotters, then why should we not just assume that any of their spouses count in the long run? It doesn't get any easier if you look through my folio, sigh in disgust and then parcel out meager trinklets to a group of moribund abplanaps. Any sign of emotional distress is something we need to argue about in a way which is remarkably friction-free. In other words, why does it always come down to you staring at a person standing near a guardrail who, for some not-so-funny reason, continues to behave so pompously? It is not now, nor has it ever been, my purpose to observe how you interact with otherwise non-ordinary haus-fraus. It couldn't be easier if you licked your own tongue.

My own genuine mailer, seen from behind, doesn't get much better than the strain we've endured for the last five or six seconds, if that. On the other hand, someone who once prayed in our neighbor's church, is, even now, circling the globe on a mission of misbegotten revenge. He claims that one of my oldest suppliers has lied about the nature of his appearance at a desk in an office on a not-very-busy thoroughfare in this or that medium sized city. A city of one, if you ask me. The likelihood that the progeny of well-to-do defilers would think twice about waltzing through a train wreck smelling like a rose, often gives one pause when filling out the requisite forms in a vain effort to prevent even minor slippage. The car you inscribe today could be the barn you destroy tomorrow. It's a choice which everyone must one day make. The problem, though, is how to fit a mundane story line into a rampant metric plattern without one and all seeking, above anything else, to dodge an incontinent thread. If it hurts to process an inelegant ancestor, just imagine what it cost the remaining horticulturist to entertain a ribald assortment of petty misfits without even one roll in the oven. (Clue: there IS no oven)

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The Mystery of Placement.

 

Excuse me, but I'm still not sure how I got into this place. It seems one of the younger members had called his Dad in the wee hours of a morning not very much like this one at all. I'd seen the man grasping at legends in hopes that one of us would make a move to forestall a victory speech in the name of rising signs of non-specific terminals in our very midst. He pleaded with me not to tell the boy about our time in the Service and I, in turn, made it quite clear that one of us would be well advised to make an illegal copy of a moribund instructional tape-delay system. This is where both of us made a good-faith effort to cross every 'I' and dot each lackadaisical 'T' before things got out of hand. One time, as I escorted a group of disoriented shepherds across a distinctly underwhelming span, I was struck by how much I really needed to organize a circulation event during the aftermath of one of our high-brow affairs. Because, after all, what can they really do to you if you decide to suit up in a trim-waisted caftan and install a threadbare jackigan inside each homeowner's dooly pan? Not much, if the reigning experts are to be believed.

So, as I'm still of two minds about where a helping hand might be abjured, especially in this God-forsaken edifice, there doesn't seem too much choice but to enter a darkened room and whisper secret formulae into an inert squallbox and wait with all due contrition for the next episode in our ongoing series of mind-numbingly boring advisory codicils. When I've asked around, and seen the reaction to the pleas of a forlorn young gymnast from the provinces, I'm reminded of the time, not too long ago, if I'm being honest (I'm not), when all you had to do was poke a mirror around this or that corner and wait for the sound to steadily build. Until then, you'd be left looking through the oldest shift letters imaginable. At which time, the only choice would be to go straight to the police, make a false confession and hope for the best. In the event that a person wearing a peculiar headdress came up with a bone-headed scheme to transfer you, lock, stock and barrel, into a segmented compound, only then would you be eligible for recompense from a duly authorized gantry stub.

Now, I know this all sounds like a lot to take in, especially on such short notice. But, you have to believe me when I say that one of my fondest memories while growing up on the Southern Rim was to see if I could hook up a dyspeptic branch manager with an isotypically fragile ragamuffin just to see the effect on jerry-built hindrances the world over. The pain it caused my collaborators was more than worth the effort it took to wrap a stained cloth around an RF-controlled bantry pump. If ever you find yourself confronted by a room full of angry caretakers, and have a hard time determining which way to turn, you could do a lot worse than to chafe the cuffs of a delapidary coroner while casing a nearby schoolhouse for one-of-a-kind stock chiselers. A word to the weary is still a worm to the wise by any other name. Thus sayeth the Lard. Ahk-meng.

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Patterned Relapse Flagship.

 

Before I had decided to have my feet strengthened, there were only so many partnerships inside of which I could insinuate myself without folks on the outside starting to come to their senses, in more ways than one, if I'm being honest. On the off chance that you may have been spared the bad news, I'm always ready, able and willing to give you the lowdown, without which you may find yourself three sheets to the wind in a half an hour or less. When you begin to intrude on the comings and goings of innocent bystanders the world over, a person in need of a directed energy weapon can sometimes be found in the lounge area of a non-descript old factory zone. On the other hand, what gives you (or anyone of your ilk) a fighting chance to make good on an ancillary promise to an insensitive probation officer? The thing about people in a training loop is that you can sometimes spot them play-acting in a fishy manner in a matter of seconds, if that. I count myself among the lucky ones. Until then, don't be surprised to find that I've managed to worm my way in to a broken field hockey colony. They say that 'everyone does it'. I beg to differ. Don't fart.

You see, there's a standard size duplication device at my beck and call in the waning seconds just before dawn pokes its ugly head through a shaft in a town near you. Those are the times when we enjoy getting together with old friends and reliving all sorts of ancestral disputes on the big screen. I'm generally the one who plays Tincup Harvey. My wife, Tina Hoskins, does double duty as both Catherine the Great and Irma Fletcher of 'Whiz Kidz' fame. They say that culture begins at home. I couldn't disagree more. But, if some of the stolen materials strike my fancy, and I can cadge a ride to the office, sometimes there won't be anyone left to bang on a collection of tuned rods and make like a 'fancy boy' writ large. Unfortunately, that's not what most people pay us for. Far from it, in fact. If I had to guess, I'd say that somewhere in your past there lurks an ugly rumor to the effect that in your younger days people got the wrong idea if you so much as crouched in a corner while others stood gamely by in an effort to appear more approachable by half. I wouldn't be shocked to learn that you once exhibited an attitude which most regarded as 'headstrong' in the extreme. Does this help me regard you as an even bigger threat to the sanctity of my marriage?  Yes, yes and yes. (No.)

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