The truth of this cannot be denied.

 

For the first time in as many seconds, I've painted myself into a little understood corner. It would not be true to say that a particular individual is thoroughly furious at my reaction to her focus on topics which are generally maligned, at minimum. I can see how that could constitute just another waning bar to a transition mandate already in swift retreat county-wide. Because, by the time I receive the ever-important belostomy satchel under the watchful eyes of a newly influential electoral combine, none of the tea in China would do the trick when it comes to causing a minor announcement to go viral, in a good sense. Instead, what we have here is just one more instance when everything a person stands for is held up in an accidental fatality implication. I myself have witnessed first hand how some obviously insensitive plagiarists can go about their business without anyone at all seeming to care when a very subtle odor reaches its inevitable thud-point. You're starting to read my mind and it's kind of unpleasant.

As I was bathing my tubes in a sunken vessel not more than three hundred yards from the site of the Cantrella Wigfarm explosion, I looked into the eyes of one not much older than your typical retired probation officer. She was beginning to come to the realization that anyone who would approach her in mid-sentence with an alarming request should probably be shunted off to a close relative who is deeply involved in the residential system writ large. When I first saw that she wasn't someone who would offer to tutor the children of mildly inscrutable herbivores, it started to dawn on me that the process of living itself could no longer be reduced to a simple formula in a cheaply produced self-help pamphlet from Hell. When I inquired as to whether she was the one who called my step-sister in the middle of the night to issue vague threats of bodily unpleasantness, all she could do was smile seductively and try to ruin everything I'd built up over the following twelve long years of backpedaling intransigence.

There wasn't any choice but to make a clean break of it and break off any and all negotiations with our 'friends' in the lamestream media. Some would go so far as to leap into my toilet in the middle of a conference call. While I steadily lost crucial ounces in my struggle with alien forces, I began to feel that even my own family members had been induced, whether by unknown substances or indirect energy disturbances, to play footsie with some very malodorous characters. In sum, what they all seemed to yearn for was to have the lion's share of my note cards be dissolved in a vat of caustic lerquids, if that. No one has ever accused me of being another Joe Pepitone, but that doesn't mean I'm about to sit around in my skivvies waiting to be driven to a parking lot at a convenience center to appear remotely at an upcoming seminar. It just doesn't seem right that every time I spell my name backwards, evil spirits take that as some kind of get-out-of-jail-free card. Why they couldn't just seep out through the plumbing system is something I'll never understand.

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