You know who you are, isn't it?

 

You are the one who we've entrusted to measure and install a tripwire at the entryway to our Central Demonization Annex. This can only help the most sincere applicants to sort through a mountain of offering statements and expose a near-term surcharge megalith. The brand-management team is all over your side of the argument and one day very soon a transponent corofim will no longer appear bound for a season of unscripted justice armadas. The tinkling sound in the corner of your plume is just the kind of racket which anyone who thinks of getting involved could do worse than to mildly approximate. Yes, there WILL be manifold opportunities to snuggle with alt-right activists and no one should worry about the invitation which disappeared down a rabbit hole of our own exclusive design. It comes in any color you can imagine, if only you could see your way clear to lie down peacefully once the announcement becomes an immaculate reality on the ground going forward. In the midst of a long, cold afternoon, it's remotely possible that you'll be able to find your very own tube which contains everythnig you'll need for a dormant recipe follicle.

We all long for the days when one trick after another would spark the interest of those currently enshrined in the moshpit next to the convertible transom in our isomeric garage tulku. I will plead the fifth when it comes to circulating bales of whey among depressed celebrity handlers in our third largest exposition fiasco. There's just no telling when I'll once again be repeatedly rammed on my way through the dorsal chamber which abuts the sacristy in my fog helmet. Because of all the times that my leisure mode beverage of choice was laced with a permanent stain-removal procedure, I've been forced to take out all the stops in a conveniently placed opinion-quotient release, and all that with my head caught between my own two, very burly, front-backs. Now that the interval between gatherings has ramped up, all the usual flyboys have decided to give our ringtoss a wide berth and instead motion to some of our pre-teen Nurse Assistants that they should take a few minutes and spend them wisely once the demolition starts in earnest. Call them by whatever name strikes your fancy; just please don't issue standing orders to betray a common enemy for wont of a strident paleo enthusiast.

Now we need all of you to strain yourselves until the pindar juice is fully backed with gold contract flukes. Each will then be asked to enable seven strikes to be added surreptitiously to their name-of-choice. A round-robin will ensue in our purpose-built dome lozenge, at which time a never-before-seen color field will be induced into the visitors' prayer-group mound. The vision will ring with a sterling clarity, and I expect to see an appalling amount of victim-blaming occurring without any single individual having to rely on a purported ribbon tree in our Sculpture Annex. Has anyone heard tell of an ancient formula for restoring unshaped pardons to a pristine parking slide? Because if so, there won't be any people left stranded in a line at a ceremony on the Lower Level. That's due to the fact that our Phase One endpoint is just a matter of seconds from cancellation. Tony Beflin will give everything he's good for. Without that, some very pious people would be sunk within a pastel rolfing snot. You can even see it in their eyes. It's made of a permanent enamel. This is the cause of not a little sensitivity. And no, I'm totally uninterested in how they appear behind closed doors. Trailing compartments could be another story. You tell me.

___________________________