The 'Meat-for-Water' Deal Explained.

 

When one of us states quite unequivocally that he feels a breeze in an unaltered location, can the rest of us be blamed if we ask him to accompany us on an unauthorized shopping excursion? After all, it wasn't but three or four weeks ago that he tried to stain an old hand-me-down and was asked to leave his number in a small envelope near a door to a mediocre dining concession. And, what with all the excitement swirling about in the run-up to the Annual Jupiter Finster Gala, could anyone ever imagine that my own logical proposition would find its way into the hands of a ghoulish representative of our Nation's exposure industry writ large? There's a lot more we could do to make you over in no time flat. With that said, part of the reason that you won't be permitted to stand alone on the outskirts of a vanishing marshland is that, by one estimate, you only have a minute or two of Registered Time before we remove said caller from an overbroad queue.

Now that my wife, Stella Daniels, feels free to leak the embarrassing details of my neurostomy procedure to some of the boys in the downstairs portion of the most recent episode, there's just no telling where we'll all end up before one of the sturdiest contraptions in our collection is confiscated without even a pro-forma hearing or two. I've done my best to control her movements since Day One. However, she quite frequently feels the need to sidestep my part in the Marina disaster and then show up at the airport with only a wan grooming basket to her name. During the Summer months, I usually stressed loading times above all else. There would be three or four guys per episode on loan from the DA's office. This is what's often referred to as a 'meat-for-water' deal. Whenever I'd tell someone to hide in the back and pretend to 'just mosey' into an unoccupied stateroom, the evidence will show, beyond any reasonable doubt, that I always made a donation to a children's cancer charity in lieu of background payments to a third party.

Even now, there's a telltale chirping which emanates from the interior anthrex where the globes are undergoing transparency trials at the request of Alfmin Rumault. His can has been found mixed in with all the others and we're afraid that a pattern is about to be detected. Several of the Jones Boys are on the case and, to be honest, it doesn't look good. In fact, I'd go so far as to inscribe a legend of my own on the back of a hot little number who's been making the rounds of every flaky bentument this side of I-don't-know-what. And, to top it off (as if that wasn't more than enough!), I've got a wicked case of scabies the likes of which you'd have a hard time believing if you weren't so stuck up in the process. I'd like to clue you in to my time in the Second World Theater, but I'm afraid that would only make you more eager than ever to put some of your things in my blacked-out area. No one will be watching in the morning when one of your least balanced patients is observed affixing stickers to the walls of a restricted fiber. For that you know that someone will need to make serious amends. And no, it won't be anyone in a non-compliant trust fipulation, just so you know.

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