There appears to be some kind of mix-up.

 

In all the ballyhoo of testing for fumes, we forgot to secrete our nozzle in a utility bag before we were due topside to finish off a prime cut for the predilection of our betters. I lifted my trouser leg and let a strange piece bounce until it was immediately taken up and added to our overall response pattern. The name of the very service elicited not a few guffaws as we buckled ourselves further in than anyone had a right to expect. I took my chief adversary aside and made him stumble into a watery cave just to the East from where our rook was holed up for months on end without even a peep escaping from the loosest of lips on any trestle. Why have some people gone on record to lodge an infantile protest against magnanimous misfits being given all manner of keys and the watchwords which go with them? I'm at my wits' end to find a reason that none of us have been gifted with an antique bow and arrow set as the Holidays approach in all their vehement glory. It wouldn't be untrue to say that some of you give me the creeps, but it also wouldn't be altogether 'true' either, by any means.

Over and above my absence from the final rule-breaking discourse, I have it on good authority that one of our mildest days in years saw the coming of not one, but two extremely disconsolate isomeres into our paltry dining bastion. This made a few of us question the destination which even now seems to be a metaphorical 'hole-in-one'. They each looked at me and scored a random switchback in their minds while I wiled away several days in the company of a sub-optimal looker of the first degree. When I got back around midnight on the 12th, I noticed that everyone, including the detail keeping watch over the 'rubber room', started treating me with the kid gloves which I always felt were my lot in life. As I arranged some pebbles in a row on a ledge under the tenth-floor advisory committee, a person I didn't recognize ran in and got into a real huff. I was due to start my Program in seconds flat so there wasn't any time to offer some comforting words to a crew who characteristically just treads water in our Baptismal Font for nine or ten seconds during your average year. This caused some of the nurses on duty to lose their cookies something awful. And, just so you know, I say that with the utmost respect.

Some of us have noticed a flurry of paint chips being directed our way each time we duck into the lavatory for a quick one. I myself have given everyone a countdown formulary and made sure that a certain type of liquid is provided at cost for atmospheric gerrymandering. If my wig holds up under a chain of accusations, I wouldn't be surprised if even the lowliest barflies come to see the wisdom of keeping patterns secret from those who only swallow with their eyes open and trained on an indistinct spot. You can leave your things in my van but on no account should you or anyone else think that it's okay to handle corporate lesions in the company of uncontestable pikers. Because if you do, and no one else sees a cause of action, we can't promise that the lip of a rim will be placed under your withering control module. That would just be 'nuts'. And also, there'll be no one to bail you out should you fail to grant a general amnesty to a disgraced hotshot. It's your way or the highway. Settle fast. Now stop eating. Profuse.

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