This is NOT about 'burning hand syndrome'.

 

She has reported a steadily burning hand at or above a suspicious notch adjacent to the three-sided wall. Yes, an excuse is always available, but we are also aware of her tendency to pad results in expectation of candied, yet removable, dollops deposited on her exposed slip. I make of her what I will, but that doesn't stop feeble-minded service personnel from drawing their own conclusions, no matter how frenzied. Everyone has noticed a transition being called forth, yet no one is powerless to stop it. They  wouldn't want to anyway. If anyone asks about my assistant, they will be fed a story about him desiring to spend more time with his family. He has no family, just many genetic enemies. And, they play for keeps. I see no reason why they should not also receive an invitation to our Summer Event. When one of them is observed slipping silently into a position of superlative compromise, it will be our cue to link arms in a futile gesture of invasive solidarity. Ho-hum.

Has a person assuming your position of autonomous deception ever been known to look askance at the endurance statistics of underserved gantry clods whenever they see fit to form gigantic, if no longer visible, circles in a less-than-praiseworthy manner? We just don't think it's a coincidence that a known individual in hyper-colonial dress would go so  far as to think twice when making a abrupt about-face, thereby leaving one of his most precious hebephrenics in the dust to scrounge for scrumptious comestibles in spades. And this doesn't begin to account for a 'certain someone's' lazy eye when a person of dubious girth begins to water her garden with all the grace of a viciously tattooed leprechaun of some distinction. It just goes to show you, me and everyone else besides, what can be accomplished with even a modicum of grit and bile in all the right places. I stood her up in the corner, and now she wants to eat my brains. Go figure.

A standardized account of quotidian fading is all that's on offer from our less-than-sanguine Junior Petty Officer [JPO] Martin Dulmquif. It seems he prefers to just lump in everything under one and the same roof and see what transpires. I will go my grave incomparably mystified by his indomitable odor profile. It's the kind of thing which undulates through all our personal petrie dishes, to the point where only an executive of a major non-profit has any business attempting egress in the late afternoon hours, if that. I have it on good authority that only the barest link in the chain of causation would be enough to forge an air-tight esplanade when one or more endogenous miscreants decide to get a very furry ball rolling for good. From the looks of it, you yourself may have been spotted wolfing down our latest tranche of contested petting results. If so, that would be a permanent black mark against your name in the precincts of barely adapted kehoes. If it would help, you can be added to our list. Please let my girl know. And no, she won't bite. (She will bite.)

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