Just Another Typical Day in the Life of the Proprietor of This Gosh-Darned Blog.

 

Upon awakening, we consult the voluminous user's guide, which, for some unexplainable reason, gives ever shorter shrift to our own measly efforts in the compatibility department. Yes, in fact, I have dunked three sample paperettes in the fluid provided, by the milli-liter if needs be, and still can find no trace of the one element which we prize above all. Below the level of the temporary markings, anyone who desires a novel inception is asked to offer sufficient praise to a dimensionless point not three inches behind the head of an indentured peon provided for just this purpose. It's quite common to find him and those of his type endeavoring to scrape the insides of barrels while those on the topside leak improvident details into the ongoing stream of toxic discourse. This will give the remainder of them time to assemble at a parade ground of our choosing to nominate a hamfisted inebrient to be our experimental subject du jour. It won't hurt if you let them take us back in time to when branchings and crossings muddled the previously pristine melodological imperdictions.

When I turned over on to my wife's back and realized that her memory was now fully erased, I felt truly comfortable for the first time in as many seconds. I abandoned my late model sedan in a ravine, concealed the suspicious apparel in the trunk of an aged steamer and set out on foot to see if I could find anyone to help me with my escalating social anxiety disorder. Once I rounded the corner and set up shop, I found that I had more customers than anyone had the right to believe I could handle, least of all yours truly. After she revealed her first name, it was clear that she had been lying from the very beginning. All of us took turns offering to get in touch with someone she claimed to have never met in hopes of sparking  a small, yet subtle, assent. She wasn't having any so it was all I could do to avoid trouncing her right then and there. Look, we've all had our issues, and, quite frankly, I'd be the last one to think that I could just waltz in undiscovered, and find myself enrolled in a randomized, double-blind stuffing stuffer the size of I-don't-know-what. If you've ever touched base with the person we all know as, simply, Jib, then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. You have my symphony.

You see, this is all about tracking undiluted substances as they course their way through the nerve wracking systems of our adjusted playbook plagiarists. They won't have far to go before we have them dead to rights and all the rings in a closed basquette won't do a thing to get them off our collective back. In the event of explosive devices placed with all due caution in a moxied grid plattern, any clerk who we may have assaulted in the recent past is to report immediately if the various handwriting samples don't match up. We'll take it from there, but not before everything is demarcated, as if for the first time ever. It won't take much to see how you react in an emerging democracy. They think they have all the answers. I'm sorry, but there aren't any. Answers, I mean. Can it. 

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