The 'Ruth Wingate' Scam Exposed!

 

In my native tropsicks I am  known as 'the salinder'. It is my duty to goad well considered trustees to banish non-compliant doofusses into a majestically lighted cylinder. There they will be approached individually, as well as in groups of two or three and made to lie down in the company of ground penetrating rebar. Unannounced as all reasonable measures should be, the insertion is set to be guided by defrocked clergy at the drop of a bat in a vat of fat-free unguent. Then we will apply a plainly astonishing amount of fletcher in the vicinity of their necessary foam. By the time my wife arrives from the Coast, all venerable assailants are to be engulfed in a hidebound tragisty of their own behooval. For this, and this alone, we are naked in the wind. You have a sour puss. Have you heard that before?

Once  up-wind from the Almighty Chauffeur, we are assaulted with mounds of pasty tumbwitch and annointed with a requisite dollop of feminized, neutrally colored lempodizical bolus. I acquired each of my companions by pretending to be a person named Ruth Wingate. As I grew more confident in my impersonation, I began adding touches of grim humor into my otherwise stentorian manifold. In the days before 'the problem' presented itself as if it emerged from a virtual nowhere, the barn where I'd discovered the final hoovers was sold to an outfit from 'down the way'. People started asking questions. I went all out and bought set of sawhorses to partition a peculiar area until further notice. No one knew where I got any of the firearms that were displayed in my shed. I said I'd put them aside if I was left alone in the shade. They aren't laughing now. No, why?

When trusted partners bestow a flammable nocturne upon a breeze-activated dimswitch, our final vapid loop engages a voluble societal pathogen in a gambit of absorbency and treacle. My own jamb is perfectly effective if, after one too many off-kilter bromads kites the spy, a pre-eminent physicalist is induced to shred his recent paper and take up residence in an immaterial goo. That will make our point very clearly but not before we rescind any late-century bluster that found a way to survive in the hack-infested igloo of socialist realism. Do you still have one?

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