Quotidian Observations.

 

We are content to sit and watch pairs of faintly Teutonic mademoiselles skip gaily by our station. It is not for us to make hasty judgments. Our moderation is only one of our protective layers. The future for which our breaths are held is approaching at a rate not to be exceeded by the vanishment of embarrassing flashes. The skirt of one of the taller ones catches on a thorny bush and all comers are relieved when order is unveiled in the midst of a nightly singing conflagration. This scarcely counts toward replacing our regimented tightwads with burly cone-sitters anytime soon. By the time some of your wearier colleagues are told the truth, all who value a candid exposure will be released to scrounge beyond self-imposed limits on tertiary language concerns. Where exactly does this fit in with an all-encompassing element? Would anyone go so far as to say that they tried it one too many times? They wouldn't have if some persons had indicated otherwise. Don't say that.

We will place each of the boxes in its own sacred circular mush-bath. The penalty for a non-compensatory religious oath is to be foiled in an attempted transition to modern scruples. It will be for the remaining ones to decide to express their deepest misgivings in a sharing community of likeminded nitwits. All the time we see them and wonder if they could be paid to escape a continuity procedure at our Nation's Airport. It  won't get any easier to 'go the distance' without first having checked to see if we still had a ride. A foothold in/on a bash is all we ever asked. Our plea to the President of the Carpenter's Union (Local 987) has gone unheard and now we are forever stuck with our eyes on a Premium Forecast with nothing to show for it whatsoever. Sometimes on days like this, it's not uncommon for your typical rando to loan someone a ballpoint pen, if only for a minute or so. No one should apologize for not being in a bit of a hurry. Them's the breaks! 

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Notes on a Holiday Luncheon.

 

Embroiled as we were in the drama of a Holiday Luncheon, we thought it wise to begin adjusting our group expectations to life in near-term containment. I felt constrained to tell the person I'm mad at to consider whether 'getting ahead' is worth all it's made out to be, especially in outlying areas. She would like to think about slamming a door near someone whose opinion I value, but since I've already attached a note to her bottom shelf, we've all agreed that problems could stop mounting once we get time to take a leak. This would be a strictly private function, as is sometimes the case.

Our group meets near a bridge during a month like no other. Our Leader, who goes by Bill Toomis (not his real name) has purposely lengthened the time it takes to reach a firm consensus. He ushers each of us onto a rounded scheduling platform and pretends to communicate through pre-verbal formulae. This involves the alteration of specified tissue, to tempt one or all of us to back out at the most inopportune moment. I make my best effort to insinuate that these types of enjoyment are of limited issue, but fail miserably, as can be seen in abandoned dress factories the world over. Why does it feel like I'm saying this inside a pure-blooded spring? I'll tell you why: because it isn't. That's why!

There's a lad who tags along sometimes—this is when, with all the Summer heat, we've had it up to HERE! I took his Dad aside and warned him, in no uncertain terms, that he had to enroll his son into another temporary program. Also, he needed to restrict the boy's intake, or get busted trying. He looked deep within me in an effort to appeal to my better nature. I slotted him in for a 2:00 PM rebuke. His wife brought in some chewy snacks, so we sat down near a tree in a Park not far from here. He showed me a picture of his adopted turtle.  I asked if he'd be willing to take my wife to the movies (she's handicapped). He told me that he  thought I'd never ask. I said 'what took you so long?'. He stared at me with a dull gleam in his eye, coughed, and went to sleep. I never heard from him again. What a prick!

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The Waning Days of the Brunk Adminigestion.

 

The Facts Can No Longer Be Denied.

 

It is now a well established fact that the one to whom I have given my word has taken it upon himself to utter a word all his own—not the one I gave him, I hasten to add—to a convention of cross-generational pollinators which took place in a monstrous circus tent on the outskirts of a major Southern metropolis of some note. The reason he thought this would be a good idea is still obscure but the repercussions have been severe. I have received multiple death threats on social media and all my appearances have been canceled through the Spring of 2025. I am looking to have him declared 'in violation' and reduced to a stark remnant concomitant to his absorption into a briny mallow solution. I am advised that this will not undo the considerable damage to over three million donated internal organs which had already had a rough go of it, what with the folks who already had skin in the game taking the wind out of efforts to induce enhanced persifilage in extra-mundane ebens.

The word that some people in a population of over-indulged runts is looking forward to using in florid sign language displays is in danger of hanging on faded tiskets, even while inherent meaning decays at a pace previously thought unlikely without industrial strength chemical spills. You'll take one to the gut and then you'll re-introduce a singing competition as if no one could get any wiser without the aid of a foreign faction. They will begin counting you into their triage and demand that you remove a lozenge from the inside of a ballsy hat trick. You will give them the satisfaction of an honorable bowel movement and think that this will 'settle the score'. Sorry, amigo. No can do.

I have personally witnessed each of my seven adopted convicted felons try, on evenings somewhat like this one, to recite a pledge to a remote homunculus and honor a flag blurring azimuth in our molten laundry sheath. They have given every indication that my failure to secure a bondage contract in a foresworn timeframe could only result in my removal to a desiccated room convenient to all major transition parks. The objection that I am allowed to raise hinges on my ability to adjust colorscales to meet the needs of developmentally delayed Oscar nominees. This is guaranteed to put anyone with whom I've shared even the most banal utterance into a position from which recovery is to be deeply feared, if not actively resisted. There will be a ketchum handle placed under your purview. A blind priest will oust the last sources of rare earth magnets from impudent fisheries. All told, nothing will satisfy like the hymn of a safely pre-mental Orinda. You will get what I've already paid for. If it's not to your liking, please take it up with a donated Pope. It pops!

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There's Just No Conceivable Apology for the Forthcoming Account!

 

Each of us has been certified to deposit our sidereal topcake near the contour of a looping route known only to our designated bigamist. The details are shady but, nonetheless, the delegate in our section is asked a question by a young fellow who appears unsure as to which applications will assure his continuance in high-measure metropolitan combines. He is told that at the conclusion of a cluster of trial periods, his collar mandate is sure to unfold exactly as predicted in the syrupy flier stanched from a woolen box of all-weather boat-registers. This he regards as repellent, but nevertheless decides that one of his five-fold tracking pits should do the thing and take a full-course clove into the next decade if conditions permit and scattered signals point to an early revolution in infant-animal relations.

We know that it can't seem any easier than it will ever be to treat apprentice pawns to a view of life in a donated volcano. When the sweetest love of our parasectual rampart turns to a trailing expert and expects one or more triads to suit his swill, then all manner of bannerisms could be called into the anti-struggle to secure the rights of disabused truculent fathers. As we observe them walking in pairs to a luncheon swapmeet on the grounds of an antisemitic second hand car battery distributorship, all our unfounded preconceptions as to life in a molecular aspatromy crumble like the vegetable-based tablature upon which they once found a measly surface. But without our many hands outstretched in a vainglorious gesture of nightwad jerpinquity, no one is surprised by the vectors ensconced in a once proud fecundite and her apparent negligence in the face of automatic instruction. If anyone claims that they didn't receive word, please know that they are lying.

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What Happened to Our Payment.

 

The entirety of our payment was impounded for a failure to disappear on a whim. I had already boxed my Raskin and gone to play a short game of ball with some of the local fellows. The one who you've heard about has a case of preliminary trenchmouth and I'm devastated. Because of the place he held in our grouping, it's assumed that I'll be on airport duty for the rest of the night. If the people in my blockage can't see where I've hidden a large plastic matting, we will assume that all your silvery painted cords are apt to be deployed on a roster of evenhanded ruffians. They'll tell you some of their complaints but not give you time to surrender to a windy condition. Which is why we lack even the most basic ability to follow trends to their tragic endpoint. Try to get comfy. This can't be easy. They won't.

But if they do, you can ask for a moment to rely on a peculiar gentleman who lounges weekly in corduroy weejuns. It's thought that his only reason to  keep a place in a busy segment is because he likes to hide his preferences behind an icy wall of stagflated countenances. They will seek assurance from him in the only way they know how: by scooping a dreaded mulvin from between the blades and coring it within an inch of his solid hat. It's made to stand up to undue pressure. Then we'll release it beneath our bedfellows' sheath and play like we've had something up to here (or there). Please try not to judge us by the way we motion to others in the dark. They can find it humiliating to observe you undulating in a provocative manner. The way that one thing explodes is lost on the rarest type of monad. If you search his effects, you won't find the least clue to his monstrous proclivities. That's because he keeps his business in the shadows where nothing grows evenly without bookish advice from a seldomly seen prankster. They will hold you with us. Now we go to bed. It is a scorchable index. Their slob is fried. Parents.

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Sonic Mas Dent.

Michael Roper 5 · Mas Dent