Prescott, Arizona Diary Entry: the Tension Builds. (And no, this ain't no 'prank'!)

 

July 18, 2013, 3:91 AM

Everything was worked out ahead of time for the people who approached my acting coach with barely concealed insouciance. He'd been taken out before lunch was served in the vestibule. And in the backyard, while the game was rent asunder, I knew a few people who just could not stand watching the most diminutive among them pretend to fold outer-directed objects into the path of separately installed remote sensing algorithms. I also knew from the way he stole away that I needed to stop involving any third parties in a procedure to insure lasting damage. At best, the husk would be hidden from view before I could be bothered to investigate my personal origin story.

This made even the strongest wankers seem weaker by the second and I never stopped making it my business to inculcate a directionless outcome into the bosom of our Nation's most flagrant violators. It's not for nothing that I was referred to in my absence as a 'walking timebomb'. Even as the burden of carrying my things devolved to a pleasantly mixed consortium of level-headed bottom-feeders who customarily wait by the side of the road in broad daylight, if that. When they grew tired of weaving tales of osnographic perfidies, I took hold of the tallest one, ducked into a nearby Porta-John and looked to see if I'd forgotten anything beyond how I got there that morning.

When the person who first questioned my version of the events under review was asked to disrobe at a Carnival Cruise Executive Board meeting, it was all I could do to simultaneously maintain a rock-hard erection and give instructions to a short-handed crew of late-blooming pederasts. Their putative leader, a Social Isolationist named Nelson Phanteebwa, was hard to get hold of, even on the best of days. This goes a long way to set the stage for the occurrence of a moribund development in our Nation's thriving mid-section. I started my day the way I usually did, with a channel full of fennel-encrusted diodes swathed in a fancy mercury-accented brooch. It wasn't long before I came to believe that anyone involved in pilferage on the Southmost would be required to reckon with all manner of objectionable materials.

I had a good mind to try to improve my access to the stolen Bledsoe Trophies. There was only one person who lived near my yurt who would go on to fellate my Security Officer's Chauffeur later that Summer who I seriously considered for membership on a revamped Commission. The only thing which gave me pause was the way he would encounter risk-averse  steamfitters and attempt to enroll them in a Solar Affairs workshop against their will. This didn't make for a 'pretty picture', to say the least. Nonetheless I figured that my facility with Montebellum pottage lore would grant me privileged access even as other lukewarm supporters were encouraged to work on bail reform in their spare time.

*****

The one lesson I take from all this is not to unfurl a preposterous banner in the company of barely nescient paymasters when all that's actually at issue is my unbidden intolerance for unbreakable interlocutors. Even as they conspire to interrupt my morning ablutions, I take great pains to appear rested, ready and at the beck and call of a thriving corporate sector, without which even my lamest denouncer would be hard put to come up with even the silliest reason to abandon social pretense at the drop of a nonce. You go there. They always do. When? 

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