A Friendship is Tested: Daylight Odors.

 

One of my friends, Harlin Blasfer, worked his way out of a plotless marriage the old fashioned way: he just went ahead and blurted things out. Untold and unsaid things which sometimes cause a man to be looked at in a short-fisted manner. He had even written letters to the then Governor-General and all he ever got back was a coupon for discount batteries. Now that he lives in my car every third weekend, as per Court mandated insufferance, I have taken it upon myself to groom him for a role in an upcoming kitchenette drama to premier at the 5th Annual Negro Women's Baccanal and Postal Release Tributary. Everyone has been signing on left and right and I believe at current levels, no one should ever feel forced to back out of a trading plan by the Winter's end. If a 'certain somebody' does his (or her?) part, we can virtually guarantee that a fully stocked basket will be placed squarely in the line of fire down a road which snakes directly off Our Nation's Highway.

When it comes to smaller registrants, one only has to include a packet of odorless hairs to insure that  their negligible attention remains upright throughout the concourse. One or another of them (usually the latter, if I'm being honest) will normally hang out after the others have gone to sleep for good. That's when all sorts of buzzers go off. Quite a racket, but nonetheless, we feel obligated to bring their secular patterns to the notice of League officials who have promised to do their darnedest to insure that even the most minor colloquy won't interfere with the habitual sogginess which we prize beyond all else. Why? Because that's the only way to bring others under our sway. The faces they expose at sundown make it all worthwhile in the end. But even before the final twiddle, when we look out over the thousands of impatient, partially solidified yammerers, we can sense the opening of an incessant pathway to painless simulations of aquatic warfare gone rogue. 

It has been alleged that I've never blamed anyone when the third person in line would do just as well. I will go to my grave reciting a secret oath or die trying. When it comes to playacting in a fantasy grill-room hobby, I leave it up to my Second-in-Command to brief me on all manner of hypothexical tissues which are usually scattered in an inscrutable pattern on our deck while I have my morning tea and scones. He acts like he's never heard of a person who doesn't trip over his own feet before. When I ask him, 'before what?', he often becomes very bitter and withdrawn. What he doesn't seem to be aware of, however, is that I know for a fact that he's only 'faking it'. He couldn't be farther from the truth if a bird hit him with a baseball bat. You get the idea. But there's only one little problem: I've lost my place. Which place? The one down in [DELETED], you dingbat!

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