There's nothing contingent about this!

 

When I say that one of my daughters has been provided with a sanded oak way-station, someone in your position may be inclined to believe in the existence of a set of facts which could hinder a person of normative aptitude from gainsaying the acuity of our Observation Force. People who like to wrap up an operation before all pantheistic sycophants have grasped the essential details are no longer welcome to join the party which accompanies us to the Roswell Proving Grounds. The reason we feel the need to exhibit such rank inflexibility is that as young inductees we were repeatedly impressed with the size of various farm implements which littered the furthest expanse to which we had any hope of accessing in the near- to mid-term. If it wasn't for the way you presented yourself in a true-being bonnet at half-time, I myself would have had to seek your remandation to a refrigeration unit in the Chaldean Heights Research Area.

Some have reported feeling 'put off' by the way my hands attract the attention of a few stalwarts who never think twice about commandeering whatever slots remain after all our future reports have been shredded and fed into a local refibulation combine. I can only mix three volatile elements before I am thrust between a level-headed co-creator on one side and on the other a calm gent in a sports coat who can't seem to get his story straight. On second thought, if I offer either one a sip from my canteen, I can count on at least seventeen nights of fretful sleeplessness. When I get up in the morning to sign in for my routine, I am told that not three seconds prior I was to be shown a tricky panel where cultured lights substitute for residual magnetism. Now, however, due to the lateness of the hour, I must sit with three alternate winners and console them with bargain basement candy-canes. Pardon me, but this is most definitely NOT what I trained for. In fact, I'd go so far as to feel my way into someone's spare brain if that would in any way lead the rest of our crew into a kind of linoleum chemical fraud, for all the good that would do.

It's a sad fact that, from now on, if you or someone under your direct control holds a pocket unit directly inside my neck area, I will have no choice but to bounce back bigger the next time. Once all the pills have been distributed on the periphery of a metropolis which has seen better days, there will be no excuse for my daughter to parade her existential angst like a 'badge of honor' and prance through Third World airports as if anyone ever gave a damn in the first place. In the second place, I will continue to endanger a construction crew on their lunch break and do all I can to install premium aspimators in the Lower Lounge after everyone is safely incapacitated behind a platinum wall in the City of the Future. We look to establish a cozy perimeter and loll gaily before the Basket Trials get underway for real. A commission of 'secular sainthood' is sure to be bestowed without anyone's prior knowledge, permission or impatience. Those of us who will employ off-color language from the dais at a trivial affair are sure to experience second thoughts once our plane has been cleared for take-off. I sit with my back to the wall in a premium hotel set-up. Someone is grabbing a bite to eat and I have to use the john. Thank you for your report.

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Yet Another Pristine Account.

 

The people I normally travel with made sure to plead with my supervisor that I not be allowed to pick up anything either near an immoderately scanned motorway or in the bowels of a moribund Achievement Center. And by 'pick up' they refer to my rather notorious behaviour with a trite selection of comely young lovelies. This has all been documented in previously unearthed tomes when no one thought to pay attention to such effluvia.

You've got to understand, as the host of my own show, it falls on me to police my underlings in the only way I know how, by shoving them HARD into and through a very special doorway. I felt trammeled in the extreme, so I sat down, turned on the sprinkler system outside, got in touch with my brother Phil Carter, walked over to the Community Pool, ran into Commissioner Howard, took a nap, did some errands, had it out with my nemesis and trained my sights on the Grand Prize which will be awarded sometime later this Spring.

Once I got used to prowling the grounds of a sprawling compound on those evenings when I wasn't being directly implicated in the erection of a third-rate balance-shield, I felt free to liberally apply a forbidden lineament to the mid-forearm area where experts have told me it would have the most effect. Somehow, I couldn't not look up when a harried professional slithered by, humming my ex-wife's favorite song from the film of the same name. Unfortunately, though, the name of the tune didn't come into focus in time to prevent a major blot from sullying my already overly bloated record of insouciance in the face of officious diktats. Your last surviving Monitor should be so lucky.

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A major course-correction is on flap..

 

It wasn't a matter of whether I could arrange a duplicate to be delivered on time. No, that was clearly out of the question. Now it was a matter of holding certain parties to a potentially unearthable codicil which would attain due force only in the event of a catastrophic reception. I have it on good authority that just a few of our boxworthy splint-threads would be sacrificed to make room for a private affair. Each of the persons who routinely faced us on a minute-by-minute basis could now be required to bow out just as a benign reassessment came into view.

Who would want to plant a stake in a novel strategy of reduction? Certainly not any of the lads I coached in the year since my wife was caught paying off building inspectors during the recent 'overflow craze'. As my overall pressure neared zero, I came to see that any one of my study aides could achieve a polarized transparency if they but donned an inelegant carpers' wand in lieu of bringing inveterate marauders to a mutual bargaining chip. I began to wonder if the unnerving sound I associated with it was somehow meant to release certain facts to a wider public.

Quite naturally, one would try to focus one's gaze at a point midway on the Ecaranza Spectrum and pray to God that a notional fanfare could erase the results of uncoached conclaves the world over. Meanwhile, if ever one of your standard people appeared in the company of a marvelously equipped passtender, and made a move which indicated to all present that he or she was not to be bested, then what do you suppose the rationale would be to move all parallel lines in octagonal configurations for the pleasure of dissociated Pastors in our Southern Branch? They cleave to a hindrance only as a fond last resort before total absorption. This means that our collective life is bonded. Only now can we pack an awaiting crate with the life's work of a panicked holder of an original Tedmark. Who's laughing now?

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