My first artificial girlfriend (mistakes were made).

 

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Updated Ontological Primitives.

There is, at just this moment, a 'chain of demand', such that each of our silent runners is obligated to return, shortly before midnight, and confirm, for the sake of some person's ample well being, that all of our shunted fairy-wheels were returned to their place of honour with all pitiable threads barely intact. I hasten to grip the face of a demiological turncoat who has absorbed next to nothing of our atomic fiber theories even while barely making bold with a lionized sister or two. His wheel is in my cistern and I'm slyly aghast at his motley choices when singed materials come into play. What business is it of his to determine where my filmy discharge gets its lacquered patina? It suits our group if he all but shouts his bequest into the wizened eyes of our trip-mounted non-standard sentry decoy. We like to get him all the time and, even if coöperation is the order of the day, no power on Earth can stop us if we decide to alter our celebratory gait in response to any of his locally sourced oxidized jelly-smears. He is known to pander to our older groups who make up the bastard's share of your normative evaguation plantlet.

I am filing a 'misery sisters' request anomaly with the Board in charge of dispensing olfactory pining rods throughout the Greater St Purvis area. They tell me that by one or two minutes past our due date, we should expect a stipulation to unfold in our overcrating which could prevent leaks to concerned parties and bring our threat assessment to an astonishing Level Zero! And this doesn't even BEGIN(!) to add a compromised zest to purgetarian marriages near Slocum's Hut, Montana and the surrounding witless projection imbroglio. 

Dad's last request to your Mother and I was to shore up our fanciest fences and prepare for an onslaught of deracinated transom whisks. In addition, he asked that he not be named in a faithless lawsuit to be outlined in our Farber's Release Testament. This should continue well in to the coming Holiday Weekend. In the absence of a letter bearing your plagiarized signature recipe, we expect that not less than three of our marginalized Sons of Opulence will be detained in a brace of inflatable district lounge markers. You will find my leading candlefuck ensconced at the midpoint of our reconstructive salad phase. Please try to look in this direction when you hear your name shunted beyond all reason. This will insure a debatable period of unconnected sleep annoyment. Has it ever been any less different? No. 

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Has anyone heard anything about this?

 

I've been told that we'll each be allowed to purchase a chair in real time as conditions permit due to an unforeseen weapons alert on our side of the eternal divide. This pits man against cousin but still enables both sides to break into three halves, provided all enjoyment is engaged while crises unfold at a steadfast rate. The arrival of our skin treatment plan is anticipated throughout the Colony and I will seek a waiver through my person's counterpart in a room not designed with any type of abatement in mind. One of my first firings upon arrival was an Iranian gentleman long known as a mascot of the Luther Vandross Society. He appealed to our group's Activities Director with a Guild sponsorship tattoo in the form of a marvelous specimen of intractable youth. The bargain seemed to be that he would gum up the works on our behalf and I would arrange for his stepson, then a promising lad of thirty-seven, to work during off hours in the sandlot down on Bank Street.

There's a kid down there who, quite literally, had a wallet thrown at him when he went to proofread some copy as a favor to a former friend whose sister I used to date in Ft Dix, New Jersey. Even though he had hair down to here, people still wondered if he wasn't 'all there'. I would take them aside one  by one and demand to know if they'd ever wondered about a little thing that I'd rather not go into at this very moment. They turned to me, as if to a real person, and relayed to me in excruciating detail their plans for the domination of every conceivable battle space. I took a sip of my iced tea, thought for a few seconds and decided to throw them a bone in the only way I know how. They took to it like dogs to water. And ever since then, whenever I need anything, I call one of the executives I met before the War and invite them over to the house to exchange points of view in an eminently candid, yet mature, manner. This is why anyone whose quandary is up for grabs is urged on most local shows to act as if they were about to receive some sensible advice from an unusual source of infernal racket. It will help to keep them young in spirit, if not always the sharpest bulb in the drawer. You've got this. 

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What's become of the 'fabled' Crandake?

 

There's a well roasted crandake, swaddled in its original planter's foil, gathering fumes, sitting in the trunk of our '74 Chrysler New Yorker. My wife and I are set to leave once I find my hat, shave and adorn the babysitter with a much needed optical starter shoe. Our focus is on setting up an emergency field operation in the Coastal area near where we were both born over seventy-five years ago. My pancid is groomed and even the neighbor's troubled officemate has agreed to see that our pond is winnowed to a silvery drop to be delivered with fully documented provenance to the Ike Henry Company upon our deaths in a Springtime explosion of unnatural colors. The trails leading to and through our association with the legacy of Nancy Sinatra are winding and opaque, but in the end offer no relief to the Family of Nations.

As I lifted my wife's head from its place of honor on a medium bedaddled storycord, you can be sure that I said the word that all persons of honor are obligated to pronounce with utmost care. Her clothing is gathered in a formal basket and I am 'up to here' with insolent messages to inscribe on bits of foodstuff that we're leaving to our natural born enemies for their (hopefully) amused perusal. It's remarkable that, even with the advance of years, my stake in the future of the lesser races shines brightly for all to marvel at, even while issuing terse bromides prior to the ensuing melee. I can't get out fast enough. This is what I've waited my whole life for, and now, I'll be lucky if I can crawl through a spandrel of flaps and recover my once pleasant pouch which gives strength to the glowering groomers.

By the sheer luck of the draw, as fate would have it, our Local Assembly has sent word that I am summoned to appear without portfolio to assume a position only rarely documented among otherwise reprehensible nitwits. My wife makes her feelings known, and, for all anyone can tell, she will soon be making a move in a footward direction with a guttural feeling tone that few can match. This could be the spark that sets aflame a lifetime of anpectral becindered breeding wands. I am certain to swallow more than one rumored geo-engineered harker's flume and even the false bill which frames my crested morning groat is beginning to smell of dinch oxides and obligated semen. This is when all friendly patter nixes the roofside and our home in the poach is sprayed with untold gallons of copper-scented gesso. My pewter balsom stand is chained to the underside of a chipper mantel and now, finally, I've remembered the name that I've struggled with my entire life. And, believe you me, it's not something I'm proud of, despite what you may think. Yes. 

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Revelation of the Faces.

 

The Faces at Le Trambeau are to be revealed in a timing sequence first initiated at a semi-annual Approval Board last June 16th. Our rounded sub-group has already been absorbed into a denaturing detail, the remaining members of which are seemingly out of step with the priorities expressly denounced by the outgoing adminigestion. The contents of a letter in our files are to be shared on a need-to-know basis with anyone whose payments exceed the merest guideline set in sand by our third-ranking officient while scouting the grounds for discarded embattlement liners.

While the Faces are considered a National Treasure, no one who has arrived at our complex in the last three years has shone the slightest compunction when it comes to expressing anti-social niceties in lieu of phantom exposures of our primal offense allotment. This has got to stop. At the earliest opportunity. For this reason we believe that you, with your airtight composure, might be able to move the needle into a position which gives us breathing room while our sadistic Client List is opened for inspection by the precious few of our lads to escape the wiles of a certain Ms Antoinetta Pfizblunk. She has the eyes to prove anything that I care to throw on the table absent an outbreak of crosstalk in our sedulous Canberra outflow. We can hide each of the tricks you'll need to prevent a dry heat from overcoming the assembled hordes of entitled hypocrites.

Once we're certain that you've settled in and require no additional supplies, a drastic Southern wind will be your clue that the time is right to deploy one or more deputies to mount an attack on rueful icebreakers who are indebted to our station in their personal Key of Life. This will help secure our lock on backwards-facing prairie terminoids which we have good reason to believe are behind a fallacious campaign of critical panty theory. Those boys fly low over our house when all else fails to gel at the random touch. What we wouldn't give to arrange for our showrunners to contract an infectious agent in the course of their abdominal near-term queefing lark! I wouldn't put it past them to wait inside a slo-mo room and bite their time just to see if it works. Nothing should be offered if we can't round up a paltry omplet or two. This way no one on our team will notice if you accidentally-on purpose sail into a fanking bourse. I will tell you when you need to get ready. Until then, please wait near the end of my wagon. Everyone will help pull you into position.  Who is that?

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