Lingering Hypostomy Rumors . ....

 

We are not above holding certain persons' opinions as sacrosanct in the extreme. On the other hand, if the handlers who we've conscripted at flashpoint get too big for their batches, you can count on us to up-end a rivalry on the South Shore which gives every indication of inflicting a topsy-turvy emotional toll on those who stood by in a dank Summer underwall while trying to avail themselves of diametric thought patterns of the first foil. If you ever see me looking out of sorts and you decide that trying to tempt me with a small bit of cake would go a long way to patching things up, you should be advised that one of your closest confidants was seen recently wandering through a women's hosiery trade show without a trace of bonhomie. And this goes double for more than a few others in your cohort of shame. Be warned.

On the back-end of a charming De Chirico scenario, those who have been known to follow us at all hours on all fours are thought to be wielding a scant Bismarck when all that was ever known for sure was the date of an upcoming Enablers' Conference at the Mid-Hudson Holiday Inn in Brisbane, Ontario. I took each of them, one-by-one if needs be, into a used cheesecloth distributorship in the Lower Twelfth and had them swear on Newton's Bible that they would never go so far as to mount a challenge to my remote leadershit prerogative. I stood with my wife and our neighbor, the vivacious Susan Parnell, and we took turns whipping through a variety of worksheets with which you likely have zero familiarity if you didn't grow up on a ranch near a strip mall. Alternatively if you're anything like a run-of-the-mill plagiarist-du-jour, you probably already have your hands full cleaning some of the parts which ended up in your trunk by mistake, if that.

Excuse me, but where is it written that two out of every five needlepoint executives are poised to enact a tragic, if remarkably feeble, scheme to entice an ever-shifting collection of bonified stakeholders into throwing away untold decades of histomological entrance reports for the benefit of certain purveyors of genuine spurious remedial glamping tufts? Because, from where I sit, there seems to be no justification whatsoever to launch a vindictive power play over a measly bit of artificially scrambled offal. The regime which we seek to install is one which holds fast to a randomized, double-blind color test in cities of the Golden North. Nothing could be further from our minds than trying to mold you and other apparatchiks into exemplars of rational game theory writ large. If we had our way, all duly appointed guardian clones would be surrendered forthwith into a cauldron of speculative trigger-farmings. Does this ameliorate the comfort levels by which you've become so declensively intrigued? Just so you know, it's not our decision to make. As of now, it's completely out of our hands. Treat?

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