Filamental Stability Agreement.

 

The stability of our modern filament is something most of us can agree upon, even if we've spent not a little time overseas. My wife seems to have a habit whereby she takes it upon herself, lengthwise as is her wont, but normally the longitudinal routine is one for the dumper. In my own way, I want to give our neighbors time to adjust to a novel configuration. With every fiber of my sheeting, I feel put out that no one was able to foresee our forced removal to a landlocked jurisdiction. The air in those parts has a well-described tendency to hasten a drying action in an aphasic skin condition. All of us were fooled, therefore there wasn't even one on-boarded person who took steps. Or took any of this seriously at all. And this was even before I collapsed on the sidewalk in front of the Courthouse. I had gone there to collect a statement from a Rabbi who moved too slowly for most of us. His very speech patterns betrayed his guilt to even the most stultified of us. I can only thank my God for failing to keep his word.

You asked about that. Yes, it was lit quite brightly. But my feet were already dangling dangerously close to an infant power structure. The cries that you could hear at night would make your blood crawl. And by that I don't mean to indicate any resistance to facing an ever changing situation. Even a stack of patterns in my crawlspace no longer gives us the courage we need to eviscerate a sullen witness. When his hands shake, all our cherished formulae reveal themselves as uncanny in their proflimancy. If you are unwilling to perform a mild act of heavy lifting, then we're afraid that any excuse you proffer may prove useless in the end. The end of what? Could we for once not 'go there'? But I'm afraid we must.

Look, this is for the good of ALL of our children. They will risk their daily protein allotment to secure even one or two more seconds of a churlish ballyhoo. I have supervised their role-playing condiments and continue to sacrifice what little I have left to see them enter a voluntary program. The brown-haired one is starting to ask questions. The other two prefer to be left in a shallow netherworld where likeminded sandbots are heard to hum a chalented frill. In any cave where you can still find yourself silenced, a world of fascinating crud awaits the discerning nincompoop. In their own way, they pout and squirm, and yet, in all that, they take no quarter. Why? Because it fits their notion of lovable bastards to a 'T'. And, you don't have to take my word for it. Just ask one of the people who you knew a long time ago. They aren't my type but I've heard you had some luck. Until recently, that is. More on that later. Scoop. 

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It goes without saying . . ....

 

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If anyone doubts the truthfulness of this account, they'll only have themselves to blame if [DELETED].

 

I'll be very straightforward about this. There's a woman I've been having difficulties with for the past three or four days. There's every indication that she is serious and I may have to move very slowly to avoid repercussions. Her hands are everywhere, but still, no one feels safe without first checking the floors, ceilings and walls and where they meet. The corner is never an effective location from which to launch a meandering tirade. Why? Because, silly, that's where she waits through the night for larger forces to enact impecunious deeds. On behalf of the Advisory Committee, I am empowered to reduce all resisters to temporary ash. The heaps you see in our freezer are proof that life can sometimes be less than a smooth ride through a 'magical' countryside. For all I know, you've decided to join them while I was on vacation. Any excuse to get out of lugging my stuff will suit you just fine, is that it?

The woman in question is thirty-four years old, has auburn hair, wears see-through contact lenses and, through all this, has maintained a steady focus on overcoming a mild odor problem. It is a well documented fact that her blood type is O negative. She feels not a little pride when she thinks of the progress she's made. Her husband, Jim Bifford, has been living a lie for lo these many years. He's been pretending since Day One that he wasn't Hispanic. Through DNA forensics, we've determined that his maternal grandmother grew up in Peru and was raised by an Austrian father and a Paraguayan mother.

The woman first came on to my radar when we were co-assigned to the Security Detail at the US consulate in Leningrad, USSR on June 12, 1967 at 10:47 AM. Later that same day it was discovered that she had stolen the remainder of my fabric softener from the utility locker that I shared with her as a matter of course. Of course the denial was equal parts fulsome and lunk-headed. I'd had enough. So I got in my car and drove down to the Jersey Shore. By the time I got there, it was after midnight and everyone was asleep. To say they were 'tuckered out' would be an understatement. I tried whistling, but that didn't do the trick. Then I set a few small fires to see if I could get a rise out of some of these jerks. The next day I submitted my papers and was granted a full let-down. In hindsight, it seems that some folks got the wrong idea. I knew she had it coming, I just didn't see how. Let's see if you have a clearer idea now, shall we?

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