The Cream of the Cop.

 

Had I been presented with a simple wall-hanging and expectations had not grown so uncontrollably through recent iterations of each task-ready bomber's portraiture haspiration, then we all agree that the naysayers who looped about willfully would be all but through in our Southern Forest. Their olfactory senses had declined over the months of squalid appearances by our (by now) second Vice Counsel in as many months. The original notions had not yet suffered the random falling pattern that we would come to expect in each of the seven partitions. I was feeling not a little mulish even though my disk was out for everyone to launch remarks at, but, try as we might, any patently bold retrieval buntum could seem to take the place of gold in our sky of white.

The cream of each cop is spread liberally within the inner brain so as to avoid idle prattling at dinners engaged just outside the perimeter of an unused bridge. What triumphs we could sink our collective teeth into were scaled to contain a breathless monad at Streak Level 4. The wind gives us a clue. It peals like leftover skeem, but our happ just gives them a further embankment on the plug side. Perhaps you've seen to it that an unstained tooth begets a null point when persons in a line least expect it. Therein lurks our supreme advantage: vaporized salt and the tenderest, most approachably nonchalant wind-surfing contestant will endow us with solid skills on the outside. The chance that you will grip your ticket to a faded hall undergoing rancid stage action is one hill I refuse to die on.

In the farthest collection of leaking desk feeblitures our morbid obsession with qualified string-wickets throws a new light on Telluride, Wisconsin traffic fatality stats. Don't say that we asked you to withdraw to a rumpled window cleaner's fabric of dread. If you do, we can promise to throw more than a few bones in the direction that you've consistently failed to cease forgetting. A bit of attractiveness could help prevent poverty within walking distance of my shed. That is where you will find balance. And I will forever live in your debt. Time is short.

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For Re-Dibterative Consplipterklation.

 

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A Lesson in Neighborliness.

 

A neighbor who has offered to defend our family homestead from the depredations of random bands of rootless pre-pubescent cosmopolitans who, for the time being at least, seem to sweep through our area on a nightly basis, has manifested these weird episodes of manic screaming and furniture breakage to the point where I don't feel I can any longer trust him to perform as the 'vigilant citizen' I once thought him to be. With the exception of a dinner that our kids expropriated from a homeless veteran of the Maltese War, there hasn't been much to complain about lately. Barring an outbreak of terminal memetic aphasia, I don't know when I've been so undone by my wife's struggle to malign a corpulent bugbear or two with whom I've developed a sleep strategy second to none in our known vistas of fantasy prone Communists.

The tramp who's been making a temporary shelter in one of our outbuildings in exchange for pruning the wisterias, has taken a bold stand and refused all offers of hypoconvulsive spectro-therapy to the point where one has to wonder who and what and where's the pine-scented blob around here? For my part, the tidings of evening trickerie and overflowing emotional support ducats have been a boon to my tooth enamel replacement hysteria and a certain despondency has set in among the support staff that seems to rain on parades not yet plotted to honor desecrated holiday-makers the world over. Over and above all that, the  painting on our outflow has reached a tippering bunt that I can't quite tell myself wasn't planned long ago, before our kids' tutors started to sulk. They'll be getting theirs; you can count on it.

And in case anyone in the Capro Support Monstrosity is starting to get their tootsies in a bind about my or anyone's capacity to inveigle a snapshot of prim potency readings from the odd-numbered docket Community School 7, they should rest easy, pop a few pins and settle in for a relaxing evening of prime time television viewing. I predict that in the coming years the study of the Flemish language and its literature will take root and grow like wildfire among today's young adults. I've seen this coming for a long time. You just can't stop this sort of thing once it gets started. People get a 'certain something' in their blood and woe to he (or she) who tries to extract it, whether through strong-arm tactics or gentle persuasion. Or even tickling. That's just how it goes. I'll say it one more time: We're all grown-ups here. This is slipping (not).

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