Sonic Emergency Gnostrum:

Braised Not Fried!

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The Bridge to the Thirty-First Century!

Please now, give a nudge to the service of an overdetermined wind. Steal away. Only a pond resists the appalling descent of the barely functional last resort candidacy. My version of the Len Hooper gravesite is modeled after the rhyme that the distal sanitary epistemé opens upon wanting a solid skill prototype which will instill a meaning to wake the dead in a vicious Thelemic holonome. A chosen approval strategem, a withered autumnal stockpile of abandoned time-travel tropes: these too are given a wide berth in the olive rendering to come. Come it may. A cone, not a tray. Tender severings will send my teething proxy-by-rights into a lopsided orbit one musty June evening in imagined years yet undone.

Cease now to carve a badge, but do crave a bridge to the thirty-first century. The first fire-code deceit: usually reserved for the all-but-nominally dead. We don't approach these gambits with anything approximating pleasure. The pressure, though, deals a wig to Jesus while the string which co-habits my coffin greets the burning nutmeg chode with a shrug and a bounce. Always was. Never is. Send a punk on his mission and relax. Re-inhabit the mist. Half it in a poor '"Yay, my God is Fred!" proclamation, and rejoice, for all is ____________ ! 

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The Final Allowable Quantities.

Only one or four or eleven or nine: these are to be the final quantities allowable under the Thinking System mandated, after due consideration, by Third Father in the one true surviving sector. An allowance for etheric profiles, while still in play, will be seen as just an unkempt brigade's total of moving limits and a bar to the telling gesture, as gradual as the second, only this time to be secreted with the effects we all know are coming if we but choose to not look away.

The bank (curve cemou) revives the heady reflex, only a stultifying breathing pattern, as against overwhelmed origin narratives, is still in play as effects render the cult program a no-go even as planning proceeds apace and a name-generator seems all but lost in the scope of all things branded null. But only the tip which we treasure in our body-positive naiveté, is a grasping, ever beyond markups, in our nightmare profile ejecta.

But your own silence is guaranteed while the splatter-pastime resistance is wavering and a finite goal, however agnostic in frame, begets the beginning of a randomly seeded formal donation target-setting achievement boner. We welcome your hyper vigilant screen aptitude and wholly unknown particle rotation while the gaseous wake fluid provides convulsive eddies that serve to trap one of the last grim egoic vestiges in Target Pain storyline adhesives.


Please now proceed.  

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Await Further Instructions.

The Master Sleep Pastor.

It seems we're avoiding a part, near the middle, where the shade mitigated a warning, all for the sake of treating patterns as random motions to one, as this cone dries nicely in a piquant folly of dread. 


The neighbors in the final segment will balance a song of bald, fluid perquidity against the thrust of Oben as the worst signal sent in fear trickles to a flood of pops. 

But what of it? I mean, what overtly partisan sanitary leather chain proxy is still, and always, at escape velocity one second, at rest in plod tempo the next, and finally reaches a breathing point somewhere before we nod and tremble like defrocked diplomats at liberty to divulge the sulphur-stage readings at leisure, on wing, exuding confluence by the truckload?

It's a bit like the rare earth market collapse in the lower fours, all brim and fortress, never needing a tree for lift, but wafting in caves, a hood mixing a boxing great with a startled Master Sleep Pastor and my dream of viscous, yell-freezing patriot farms only a flimsy trial alert to stun a populace into covert fantasy parade fixtures to beat the band. You know we only mean it when we nap. Are you covered?  

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Incident in the Eastern Corridor.

I was waiting inside the eastern corridor a little before noon.
This is when a little brown man with a real 'shit-eating' grin
approached me with an offer to transport my wife and myself
to southern Mexico in pill form to be secreted in the vaginal 
cavity of a 'down-on-her-luck' starlet on her way back from
Loserville, USA. 

Jeanette Mickterflarb

Oh yeah, she was gonna do it in style,  with water cannons, flare-guns,...the works! 

Anyway, this is how it was supposed to work: once said starlet (her name is Jeanette 

Mickterflarb, but that's a secret) made it safely into the Chiapas Province, she would 'do her business' in a special unit provided by the Government (on an experimental basis only) thereby excreting our still-pathetic pill-form selves into a Dixie Cup which would be flown to secret compound in an undisclosed location under cover of the Georgia-Pacific Railroad, through secret granting authority invested by the Forty-First Circuit.

At first it seemed like a pretty cool idea, except for one little proverbial 'fly-in-the-ointment', to wit: it happens that I'm not married. I don't have anything against it, mind you. I just never met the 'right girl', I guess.

 

And not for lack of trying, I'll have you know! Gosh no! I've attended the annual Holiday Mixer every year for the last 23 years and have had many pleasant conversations! Please don't think I'd ever let you 'trip me up' about this thing, okay? Because if so, then someone's got another thing coming!

 Oh, and I suppose you're wondering: what happened to the little brown man with the shit-eating grin? 

I floored the sucker, that's what!

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