Late Breaking Reactions to the Current Situation.

Since our negative welding tour last year, my wife's smell has occupied an increasingly catastrophic load of bandwidth which is only now bringing to bear those difficulties the chewing of which we had bit off too much. When I say 'she had it coming', you can be sure that I am being as mild as current regulations allow. However, on those occasions when I'm heard (or seen) to mouth the lyrics to a half-century old 'also-ran', then we can all agree that the time has come to put various items in an order which won't arouse the kind of suspicion that can have someone refusing to eat out of the hands of warm-hearted carpers. The illusion of control can take us far afield in a way that disabuses iatrogenic pest framers of their former jubilation to finally be rid of the context which had kept them pegged to the very end. I always knew that I would stand by them. But in the interim I had sufficient cause to undergo bladder surgery in lieu of an invitation to a Calming Supination sponsored by a Mr Dennis Grant of the Randolf Hines Foundation.

Sometimes there is no cause which can be isolated to bring about undesired results. In that case, if you should decide to meet me halfway between here and there, I can promise unlimited access to my collection of antique spinach strainers. These will help you attain a vibrancy which you formerly scorned, not so much in the manner as in the breach. I will take it upon myself to bring you one of our most loyal specimens so that you may exert your evocative wiles on an innocent nomad. Don't let that name fool you, though. We've had to run through over sixteen thousand cherry-picked professional liars before one could be seen as adequate to waltz through a covered display. At pains to risk exposure, I pulled her arms through a device which flattened them into a manageable tightwad. Please don't say that we didn't try. That would be a shame. That's why I'm telling you. 

In our own last-ditch effloresence of strategic bonhomie, I was informed by no less than the Principal Actor that my own hazy recollections of past exploits would scarcely do the trick to insure our inclusion in all manner of striated gumtwats. When I tell you that this has caused indelible damage to our forensic image clusters, you can be sure that I know whereof I speak. To treat people with a laminated disregard is all we ever hoped to achieve. Instead, I'm now faced with a boiling hot reaction to my placement in a row of picayune onanists. The result has been as harrowing as it is fulfilling. In my own narrow-guage fashion, I will judge each of my tormentors in a way which brings credit to our own cohort of tungsten-eschewing allergists. When faced, as we were, with a delayed faction of unyielding psychopomps, the rules of engagement were thrown to the dogs and my own weight became a thing of true futility. For this I have you to blame. You're welcome.

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