The Line Which Begs the Question.

 

There's a line which, when it closes in gently beside this head, everyone will finally be forced to admit to a range of findings.  Not one myself, I'll only be able to stand nearby, my arms placed just so, and undertake a task which is barely seen outside of trusted townsfolk. We've held them apart from the first time it became apparent that no one was in the mood for joking around. If one of us had something to say, we would generally think better of it and try to estimate the time it would take to hold ourselves apart from a terribly likely current.

The pause which those of us in the back beheld at our significant peril, can only be adduced to the woman whose innocuous soldier is now being held for an impartial briefing in the sullen manner seen in these types of incidents. Some darker purpose is served when a location is scouted for an (until now) secret meeting. I was asked to expose my rampant judiciousness to every kind of paltry scenario. In the event of a brighter fusion, all our stumbling relatives will be delivered unto a raving mob of teenage putrescence. All of our worries are encapsulated in a brief account designed to elicit a standing freeze of onboard restrictions. Large moves are from now on to be forbidden. Even the smaller ones will take some getting used to. By which I mean that you may not be invited. Don't worry, they'll come for you eventually. It's now or later. Pick one and leave your stuff with my punctured bailiff. He won't ask for your name because he knows it's none of his cotton picking business.

Why do some of us like to go around to the houses of former neighbors and install devices which we know will not help us win any upcoming popularity contests? Could it be because deep down, when we know no one is looking, our appetite for copious intrigue helps us 'double down' when 'starting over' is and never will be an option in our case? Because if that's true then some of our least finest molecules will be exposed to a prurient dose of previously non-available light. And then we'll start coupling and re-coupling, until all our favorite journeys stop being written about in ways that have us doubting our creepy life choices. You will give me one for my head. The line will go on stringing itself, lighter every day until sometime soon nothing will be seen at all.  Even your love of simplified folk melodies will be questioned. Can you see how this ends up? No? Then please try again, if you would.

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Onkers.

 

Once she's netted her Oblamore position near a spot where I count on what friends I may still have to pretend to stop spitting at me, she will be awarded a black and white coverling and I will consider scouting out a pay-ball locution which suits us to within a fictional 'T'. Some seem to have an opinion at odds with the preferred social flame retardant. A day in the flavor is not without its charms but you will excuse me if I fail to evince the proper level of excitement, won't you? We'll be pleased to share a laugh at someone's expense if we can obtain their approval beforehand. This will give us a promotional opportunity to announce clear guidelines for action in the coming days. Some of them are courting disaster by their very appearance at locations of choice. The others are deemed inexcusably referenced and abandoned in a dusty rinkmod of their own making. I will get you a slip of paper. Then you will be shown a diagram of yourself infiltrating a piece of crafted wood. It shouldn't be this easy. But it is. Onkers.

Even if every third child could be persuaded to try to impress someone with a high 'crust factor' to join them in practicing fetal positions during the occasional Solstice, it would still fall to our betters to engage each and every sterling vagabond to respond to a hoarding accusation with an engineered 'slip of the tongue' and lapse into a brocade of sentimental bums. Especially when even their own houses are fleeing them, you would think that some would take a small measure of satisfaction from the movements of radio-effective fluids. That would not be the last time a ball was dropped in the lap of someone too tall to know better. Please don't give me that, okay?

With the score at better-than-even, the time which we apply to our reign of thrills is not seen to be wasted while in the back a dram of coppertine could still be a pill to the risk of failure. A former co-worker is likely to notice that one of our faces 'just doesn't look right'. We believe it would be a good idea to see if we can get him the help he needs. One of the hands in his case belongs to that of the scandal-scarred District Attorney. He was observed talking to a transgendered Asian female at a major airport in the time it takes to rust a socket. All of our ploys have activated a forlorn felon and, just like that, a ship is in the bag. All that remains is the 'blame game' and a scrugg won't be so nettlesome if you learn to eat it with honey and chives. No, this doesn't count as 'trimmings'. Peace.

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Sales Slips: A Bold New Use-Case.

 

There's a partially obstruded sales slip that I'm using as a sort of a wrinkled shade to shield a sensitive area on my upper torso where Mrs. Kemnick had recently scored her own private 'victory parade' when her assistant informed her that I was entering the fourth stage of non-vitiated coma, or so the two of them thought. In my private quarters during the previous osmantis of seconds, while they scurried about to prepare for the evening's 'festivities' I had locked a miniature pin inside the tail end of a discarded toothspray nozzle which had been hovering provocatively within earshot of several of the most recent pair of blind siblings we'd been instructed to lead into the path of victory.

If at one time a child's seashell collection was placed at an angle to be replayed at the subsequent trial, no one could have foreseen what would become of my contiguous attorney, Mr. Raymond Buchwald. Before his emerging prosthesis could be bandied about any further, as if to demonstrate the foldable quality of time itself, one could resolve to never be observed without a tasteful accessory or two. This would aid us in restoring a sense of proportion to those who exaggerate while personally invested in an ancient scene of barren fieldwork. I am certain that even with the approval of a maximally entrancing lissome young nurse-practitioner, not one person will feel it necessary to withhold a wad of sacred cotton from the disparate fingers of legions of repressed needlepoint minions.

The way the rays of artificial arc-light illuminate the scene of desultory, icy knackerie, some of our number have got it in their artificial heads that I am to be awarded a 'Summons to Delay' and thus be considered off the hook for whatever random excesses of which I'd previously been so unfailingly accused. The plan is likely to worsen my already acrid complexion and cause one and all to override a telltale negritude of my oven-ready particulated scanty fleck. This will help to betray knock-on effects of those whose steady armature will require continuous readjustment when our plane arrives in a gust of sober declensions.

If, as seems probable, I have failed to enter the proper set of figures into the assigned ledger, I will count on the eventual reader to relive troubling childhood scenes at a pleasing angle of doubt. Thus we might still be allowed to swim with a rectilinear partnership in a foul-mouthed 'mind-at-large'. Because now we can feel our readiness to delay to be at one with a fairly loathesome de-maculated string dispenser of our very own. Only then can we rest. The remainder awaits your lurid skidmarks. As I think I might have told you, 'they just don't make them like that anymore'. What say you?

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Contemporaneous Excisions of Braille-Endowed Porcelain Slit-Covers.

 

When I remove my left hand from her forehead I notice a spot where gray dust has not yet been played as a foodstuff in our district. We will not skip a beat if it wails the Jesus out of a person who falls in our ramble to destabilize a curtained regime. The shoulder about which I formerly prattled about to one and all, had now become my gravest companero as depicted in a drawing by the former berdoin of the lifpurssa's nagralent.

When she utters a name while doodling patterns in an inky twist of scotchgard, I am moved to tell her of vast mineral deposits located one eighth of a mile to the west of her very tentative left banyerd. On this she stakes her convalescence as I grip a key to my bosom whose cloth is a name of its very own starkly belittled cousin.

In the dripping patna-pipe which we've mounted, with difficulty, in a moving train near our Summer house, will be found, exactly one year from today, a secretly inverted image known to stanch the flow of brine into a wrinkled field at the mercy of corrupt police officers. They will let him piece together a shallow cave with buffered ice lions to hold a scultry prow, enabling a verbose bastard to take the fort for all it's worth, which isn't much even in 'today's money', I'm afraid.

Upon the escape of the fabled gram of industrial substance, our weapon-of-choice is sure to remind the others of a spring-like medium of glee. And why would anyone expect the difference to scald one so fierce as to embark on a trailblazing encomium of fudd? It rankles our bizthum and scores a trank to a chippering flantic's maw. And that's no way to run an airline. Could there be any doubt, or am I one? 

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Co-Terminus Pliabilities Unfold Nightly.

 

A tone has been set. And the smallest of the three Mentarkins, plagued ever since my own childhood with the need to spread doubt in ways no foreign individual would find acceptable, nods slowly while manipulating what passes for an 'ear' in these newly robust models. We should like to react to the yellowing baffle in a way which removes us from the possibility of auditioning for a position in the 'subderating knife trick'. Almost as soon as that becomes a commonly held sentiment, I, being the newest, am obliged to uncover an envelope within a barrel of silt.

We now bring it to him. It is said that he strains to avoid the scalpel when the right word would do the trick. Underneath the usual swaths of cloth which litter his desk (we call it 'the pretend desk') is a placid, but very much alive, Eurasian baby. It bubbles to the top with a type of hissing which no one could ever expect from such a living treasure. Those of us who have roamed about in vain take notice and agree to stop filling containers with wasteful amounts of baffage.

Seemingly in an effort to continue appearing to breathe, I abstain from trimming the Wainscott, and hold myself blameless when one so ordered agrees to sit astride the gulf of hindsight, but not to inscribe a pitiable rumor within a lake of false blood. It is by our own lights that the way is clear of badly tethered uxtible planters, or so we hope. The alleged Grandfather, whose faith typified the reigning ideological fentswards of the last century, announces his baleful presence in each of our minds with a tapping that could never be mistaken for any other troubling gambit. I am afraid all over again, as his Final Rites were celebrated just the previous Autumn and it is my duty to inform each of the infirm Ministers who always lounge just out sight in the background. The smell is overpowering and the sleeve is fraid, but hover we will when miniature trains are discovered inside a plaster tree placed provocatively on the grounds of a failed Picnic Preserve. No one is using these things anymore. Now it's our turn to smile, stare and then lie down under the tarps already provided. Go team!

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