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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