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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