Emotional Inventory Suggestions.

 

It's not a mistake if some of you get a not-so-funny feeling that those of us on the other side enjoy nothing so much as whiling away the hours, days and weeks all by our lonesome in Room 9. It's in that Room (and that Room ONLY!) where envoys from advanced extraterrestrial civilizations take the time to make their feelings known, understood and—finally!—absorbed like so much 'mother's milk'. Once we've parlayed our advantages, root and branch, and had a go at a bit of tragic epistrophy, we feel like nothing so much as a smallish container of warmed-over Insta-Ade. With a winning smile and a trunkfull of 'collectors' edition' soiled doilies, it's our distinct pleasure to run the numbers and hide some snails in a bigwig's oven mitt. Not to worry, because he'll never know about the time I hosted your parents in a freeze-frame extravaganza which existed, it that's the right word, for all of a second or two before anyone got the bright idea to contact Senior Justice Department officials. I always wondered, like, what if I got a nosebleed or something? Would people realize that I'd been missing for years? Does this thing even work?

Now that I've entered the third and last pavilion on the Motorway, it seems increasingly obvious that no one in my shelving party will be able to go the distance without even the tiny trace of help that I might be persuaded to provide at cost, if that. But, that's only on the off-chance that an oily residue won't gum up the works something awful. What is it that anyone has to lose anyway? Would they still exhibit such profoundly disturbing characteristics if I was honest about their chance to forestall a troubling absence in the time it takes to paint a crescent Moon on your average dust flap? I don't know about you, but I'm the last person you should tell about a feeding problem in your troubled infancy. Because, even before you put down your pen, I'm on the phone with one of the top people in the business. He'll set you straight on exactly how much I need and in what colors, denominations and hair lengths. After that, we could go for drinks at the club. If that doesn't suit your fancy, why not come clean about your role in the Helen Weiskaupf affair? It'll only hurt when I start to apply direct pressure to your anterior weemus. That's okay. Don't mention it, I'm sure.

There's just no telling if the ponticle parked in my bar court has seen better days or if I'm off my game like a windshear in a shell-shocked bentilope. If these trends continue unabated, it's a virtual certainty that one of my least trustworthy associates will be due for a major looking-at before anyone decides to get down and dirty with an isotrophic plaything or two. Now that I've tunneled my way through to the inner recesses of a reformed ice-pokey juggernaut, what do you suppose it would take to have my granite-faced accomplice installed in a well-oiled mechanism second-to-none? Because, if not, I'm just not having any, thank you very much. And besides, is it really anyone's business where I get my hair done? It's only those who play fast and loose with a trust fund who spark my pride in ever vigilant coprophagiacs. No one on this floor thinks that will get you very far. In fact, the only time you've ever gotten stuck on the business side of a punk register-show will be the very LAST instance when you can count on our direct involvement going forward. Without even winking, you'll know it was us all along. And then what will you do? Go cry on your widdle wommy? Yeah, right. Sure. 

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