Pending Excavation: Report.

 

There's a pending excavation in my segment for which I can only feel a larger-than-life trepidation, even though I've been preparing for the prior three or four minutes. The blond woman, who everyone believes used to date my podiatrist, is passing out sheets from dog-eared hymnals bearing a single non-integral number. They seem to enjoy grabbing the sheets and using them for various fun and games, all the while knowing that someone has worked very hard to make sure that all contingencies have been provided for, taking into account each person's individual dietary needs and restrictions. When I enter one of the shelters, she sees me and immediately scrounges for a bit of dough that may have fallen by the wayside when no one was any the wiser. I think later that I'll give her a 'G' for trying. But first I have to get a hold of one of the guys who made her cry at bedtime the night before I flew in from the Coast.

When my older sister married one of the Helmer boys (the younger one, I think), I approached Barry Schiffman to see if he could arrange for a group of average looking young organ donors to put in an appearance at a guest shot I was making at the Hotel where the wedding would go on to be canceled. Before this could be seen for what it was, I named the tallest of the donors to my Honorary Commission on Judicial Ethics. When I made the move he was confined to a convalescent facility for naturalized immigrants. His wife was expecting their second child and had become impossible to deal with due to her position on gun control, abortion and homosexual agriculture. Now it was my turn to turn heads while I walked my dog in the rain on St Patrick's Day.

When I got back and spoke very softly into one of the improvised ears it had been my choice to embellish at cost, I noticed that a bland shade had been placed across my cubby hole and I no longer had access to a vat of accelerants I'd been saving for my upcoming spree. People had always doubted my dedication to duty even though personal hygiene was never an issue. In fact, the personal 'Best in Office' award had been mine for five years running. Some of us had caused a loop to become caught in a ratchet, much to the consternation of our local person. We didn't think twice since his hair was never anything to write home about, if you can catch my drift. Once he appeared in my den after midnight early Wednesday morning, I asked if I could help him settle into a better rhythm of give-and-take and come-and-go. He replied with a shrug and a muffled cry for help. I appealed to his person to be there in the morning after I broke my foot in a pick-up basketball game. He even sat near me later that Summer at the Stadium when my wife served me with papers. I dropped a pencil accidentally-on-purpose and now, wouldn't you know it, my chiropractor has suffered a nervous breakdown. It's his own fault if you ask me, not that you would,... but still. 

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Could there be ANYONE to the Left of me?

 

My political affiliations and proclivities have been called into serious question. This does not bode well for our movement.

Could there be anyone left who no longer appreciates the sensation which courses sublimely as most 'things' of value start to give way? 

We will each append our bids with a mixture of desuetude and macaransis. Only a tantalizing brunette is to be permitted access to an underwater hiding place should our previous owner decide to issue a faulty coupon in lieu of a sanitized beefing terp. The gate in the center of the window is scheduled to be adjusted to admit no solemn notes unless the inductee has pre-installed a fanning unit on a floor other than the one which he or she has abandoned before a likely person returns from the Airport with a fresh sensing apparatus, if that. It doesn't take much to creep through a hutch with a diamond blade and instruct a teenage bride in the hard truths of conjugal living. They could give you an insincere hug or possibly present you with a mug of warm, potable liquid. It'll be fun to see what happens.  As for me, I'll be downstairs monitoring your movements with a finely calibrated sense of outrage.

At the edge of combat, the most common complaint is that a colleague's footwear has left initialized nano-scaled prints on the lower part of a particle-board wall at the insistence of one who refuses all entreaties to silently observe patience-free protocols. It could be something as mundane as a lowly houseplant. If you take your good, sweet time at the entrance, we will have every right to band together during the evening hours and see to it that you are impelled to answer for my many deficits. Those on your team have had a hand in each and every instance of my Leader being led into unintentional perfidy until someone got the bright idea to call the State Police in Moline, Illinois. To say that some of us have a fondness for toast of all kinds could lessen racial tensions in the Nuclear Highway Administration [NHA] writ large. If anyone decides to use a 'gravelly' voice as per our instructions, they should also limit their reliance on any sort of mystification. It just makes for a more accurate dump site.

The goal of our entire table-setting scheme is to see to it that one or more of the tesseracts are found within a fortnight of a genuine birthing opportunity. A dream which prevails at the expense of a non-obvious tension-release formula is always preferable to the discovery of a pell-mell inscription on the leader-board of costly compliance procedures. You will know them by the way they slip into position with only the barest of movements. A bit of schmutz on a floorboard is never what gets one through a difficult apostomy. Their seats are in alignment. The coats are 'to die for'. And all their ringed patterns bring gypsum icons to a prestigious, if finicky, boil.  When we count down by threes from ten thousand eight hundred and twenty-six, this should give you enough time to enjoin a solipsistic nomad to fake an intuitive awareness of seasonal cropland referrals. Does this make me want to eat you? Yes, but . . ....

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This is what happens when aggrievement is righteously earned.

 

Jaran Pesmo felt genuinely aggrieved. All morning he'd been taking down small pieces of chalk and placing them in appropriately spaced Dixie cups which he'd bought just for this. And now the wife, whose name he'd only recently purchased in an online auction, took actions that perturbed him. Once his English had failed him, he sought a helping hand at a market near a River underneath a bridge. A bridge, I might add, in desperate need of emergency repairs. Yet everyone felt perfectly okay plowing on through as if someone else could be expected to bear the superlative brunt if worse came to worse. Jaran watched closely to avoid common mistakes. Also to blend in. Even the clothes he wore testified to this in spades. You get the picture. Not everyone does. Try me.

I managed to enroll the wife in a ring-toss intramural dispute while their kids were kept busy in the basement of one of our foremost Major Leabers. Each was designed to incorporate a spoonful of Special Liquid. They knew that if they could go the distance, then I would make sure the parents were awarded custody of a titanium interval desk. It would allow their competitive traits to bloom quite produndantly. We've all known people like that. They ask if you'd like one. You start to move your hand. They back up and try again. Rinse and repeat. All goes well if it starts with persons deciding to pretend to make a bold commitment to appearing effortful. We're glad when recalcitrant busybodies start to see it our way. It will go easier if you join them for a drink in our cellar.

Once Jaran had searched through all of his unbreakable line items, I felt it was time to look directly between his eyes and ask him if he really wanted to go through with this. Or even something vaguely similar. He replied that since the wife had taken to ducts like a floor to water, he'd had to rethink his plans and try to not come up wanting for air in all the wrong places. I knew that he had a chronic knee problem and his place in the Program was at serious risk. We decided to approve his removal to Hawthorne State where there were trained spatialists. Before he was transposed, his remaining underlings expressed the wish to see him in his own wagon. Unfortunately his number had been lost in the War, so we had to make do with an Ivan Cart with the wrong code on each side. It served everyone right. Each of the kids was given a jumper. The wife was gifted a Committee all her own. I took my sweet time before refilling the Delta. The house was sold to a Junior Minister. Despite what anyone might think they've forgotten, no one ever got caught. It was that kind of year. 

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