Psyclantropismé en Fazhooq!

 

By now we've all been living quite comfortably with a churn rate approaching zero. The cum in our works begins to seep sweetly onto the vellum where even the most premature illustrations are sure to attract the notice of our weaponized Mother Hen. Yes, of course, she's known for sticking to her griddle but the padded ground beneath her treat never does not yield to pressure from a damning package. Three or more toddlinks to be gilded at cost will be certain to raise opportunity costs beyond sight of your lithe parquet moll. Incoming flags of convenience drape the slimmest lug while we live to see a day ingrained for nary a plop. Over my own field, any worker who holds a crab inside his nebular bullet is not one for whom bursting remains the least cogent option. The most recent tragic example appeared weakly in a dull red outercore. But, by dint of his market savvy, all his guest shots were underwritten by the Copatetic Lynchwood Collective. Their rates vary widely. What we can say is that once we've driven one or two miles, our steadiest clothing appears blarmy by comparison.

Some are afraid to notice that their own sense of inner psychic balance begins to fray noticeably from the stukenfrent outwards. In what has to be a stunting crown for all likely stewards, a show of hands during a rampage of cups portends the end of any sophisticated slope analysis. By their grams you shall know if your efforts will give way sleepily or not at all. Now that any card in question lands with a thud on a mistaken afterball, we can clearly see your face chewing itself into a fresh and fragrant splattern. Anyone will think you a worthy atomite. We, however, will know your secular pasture for what it is: a lasting tribute to an existence made scrolly for the purnid pince of lubberly failed woolen vessels. Even then, though, a treat to a well burnt offeratory may insure your placement within reach of any and all supernal tracking fronds. This cape becalms your fusion. But a landed, fanciful cuck can no longer adjust his cypher to engulf an entire season of widdles. It's baked in, is all we're trying to say. And now it's your turn to fray. Try to shake the ghost. Any feverish bovine might slake its only cost. From this we freeze. Now you. Then it.

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Hydrogen Footprint as Personal Crisis: Let the Facts Be Heard!

 

Several of my less tainted colleagues have requested that I take a step back and invest some quality time in adjusting my hydrogen footprint into a more neutral, crowd-defying territory. Normally, in a case like this, I'd come at them with two fists blazing, but I had to admit that they made some good points. And some bad ones as well. I took to keeping lists of every time they were observed in the hallway. One time I caught one of the more flagrant abusers asleep underneath his car during a major work staffing perfuke. This got everyone's personal needles pinned to the red. I wasn't done yet, though. I knew where he kept his lozenges and arranged for one to go missing. This was time that he would never get back. But, all in all, there was still the nagging issue of my atrocious hydrogen footprint. Could I afford surgery? No, but this wasn't in the cards just yet.

I prepared an ambitious yet evasive series of counter-moves. I knew that my supervisor had allowed a suspicious liquid to be introduced into my sanctity bag. It was obvious from the way his shoulders stooped that he wasn't getting any younger. I invited him and his young wife to accompany me on a solo camping extirpation. They would travel in a third car and by the time we met up later near a dry creek bed, I'd spring my findings on them as if I didn't have a care in the world. I knew I'd get a rise out of them, but, sincerely, that's hardly the word that I would use. I'd use a very different word. One that'd have me eating paste for a week if anyone thought they knew better, which they did. But that's not the one I'm thinking of. For that you'd have to go all the way back to the beginning and calculate the odds of running into a stranger who sort of resembled someone you knew a very long time ago. Yes, it was that serious. I shit you not.

In the coming weeks I had my own rather baleful awakening and further resolved to go all in. When one of my more attractive pross-comps unveiled a lucrative proposal into a virtual feeding frenzy of probationary hypectors, it was more like barking up a barren tree than anything else I can think of. They were each given a sheet of paper and told to go wash up. I was the last one in the room so I took my good, sweet time. I took her hand tenderly in mine, and, very slowly, asked her just what the heck she thought she was doing. She turned tail, left the room, the building, the whole goddamned facility itself, for Christ's sake! I waited her out for the next three years and now I hear she's undergoing fertility treatments. If you couldn't look at her for more than five seconds, you'd think I was making this whole thing up! This is why I always maintain a selection of dots, each one corresponding to one of my named enemies. Any dot whose flavor starts to veer into acridity will tell me which 'average Joe' I have to keep an eye on. If it wasn't for this system, I'd have been out of here long ago. If you could humble yourself just a might, now would be a good time to say (or think) a simple 'Thank you'. You're welcome, I'm sure.

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A Frank Confession.

 

I'm starting to have doubts about whether people who mention things to me are trying to send a secret message. I see them meeting during the remission at a mediocre concert. They look at each other like it was something they ate. Every now and then I'll offer one of them a piece of advice concerning their reliance on other services. Sometimes they'll shoot me down. Once in a while they try to pretend to be more open. It's a blessing in disguise, because, from the way I have them pegged, if I were to  introduce one and then another and even a third, fourth and so on, a complex series of trusts would need to be codified. In order to do that, I'd need a skin sample and a recording of their morning routine. This will take some doing.

To be fair, I've only started to enact this as a favor to my Father. He's a Rectilinear Director of the Comfort League. His name is traditionally very difficult to pronounce. Even from thirty thousand feet, you'd have to hand it to yourself. Any closer and you'd be a fool not to. Beyond that, it's a cheap shot at a fool's bargain. I won't go near the water again. This time of year the flavor just isn't right. When we come down into a leading valley, everyone can tell that more than one of us might need a helpful nudge. I'm all but out of it when my girlfriend is found hiding by herself inside a very large and very old hollowed out magnet. Her hair is usually 'to die for', but that day? Forget about it! There's just no way. Up till then I'd scraped her wrist raw with anticipation. Now everyone looked the same. Whether on the inside or the outside, it always comes up numbers. Sometimes there's even a sound. We all become suspicious. Especially the taller ones. Why? They always go first, you retard!

When I enter the room, it's always with a little flip. My training partner gives me a look and I take the hint. Normally I like to travel in pairs, but this time there's a bench I've got my eye on. Sitting pretty is how I like it. The fingers are placed near his ear. Good thing he doesn't sleep well or I'd need to use a nozzle. The first drop hits him like a ton of bricks. The next day we're no longer speaking. Instead, I decide to go with a 'blessing' strategy. He's prone to a milky discharge. During that last Winter, I could tell we never really had anything in common at all. By that time I'd already been sleeping in shifts at this other brute's house. And, just so you know, no, I've never been 'that' way. (This will serve you well.)

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Case Study No. 763: Notes and Comment.

 

When our patient comes to look for us, we are told to remain perfectly still. This will help her calculate her position by touch and smell alone. We believe that the woman who claims to be a surviving care-giver of the patient is, in fact, someone who we will be obligated to hold  liable for difficulties in our specimen bar. No one who has seen her walk in her characteristic hitch-free bombast is thought likely to last the night. If it wasn't for our floorperson, the stain which you can see with your own eyes would cut a vastly different figure than the one which currently holds our community in thrall. The overall feeling is that we need to arrange our things in a pattern to help us perform routine tasks if an alarm is sent from out of state. One of the very deficient providers has already signaled that he is ready to cut his lines to an outflow of calibrated emotional discharge. It might help us feel more in tune with our rubational habitat if one or more of her celebrated mini-series could be re-shot in their newly renovated basement.

You can see for yourself that no one who has contributed even several seconds of attention will any longer be afforded a luggable device. Especially since, behind their back, we have installed a brisk current indicator on each corner that you see marked with an invisible letter. A notable shade will enter people's voices and they will give renewed thought to unmasking quiescent opportunists in their very midst. It can send them into a downward spiral or aid them in their ascent into supernal states of false consciousness. Their own metallic instructors will guide them in their quest for never ending peril. Unfortunately this is not the case for some of our lesser parlour brats. For them, there is only one course, and it's not one that ends with any number you've ever heard of. It couldn't get any easier than this. But for others, sadly, that is no longer an option. Yes, you heard me right. This does not sound like the business I grew up in. It sounds like the other kind. You know the one I mean. Say it. Now.

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Note to readers (HA!): Please be advised that this post

is number 300. This means that we are approximately

10% of the way to completion of 3,000 posts in the

projected series. At the current rate, this will take about

32 years. Please stay with us every step of the way!

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One of My Fondest Capers.

 

Our teachers are the only people we sing to from beyond a burning car. I stretch my legs and return to the town in a way which seems earlier but, in fact, is not. Not for nothing is the one who beams at me leaving a lot to chance. The kinds of characters he's been known to play are said to court trouble by the trunkload. I give him my broadest hand-wiping tool and require nothing but the barest pittance to keep my boat inside a secret towel. It will help us get started if we resolve to never have words in the days to come. He gives me that look which says, 'I'm never coming home'. There will be some younger drunks who escape detection and go on to earn substantial asset forfeiture. I've whispered about their exploits in my sleep. The whole neighborhood enjoys looking in my window while I read. I treat them to a nice chippy. Now they're all in the hospital. It serves to show them the proper mode of conduct. I've slept with over half of them. And no, it was in no way any kind of 'day at the beach'.

With my trusty Paul Phillips knife in hand, I appear well suited to the challenges inhering in a strategy of total avoidance. The controversial stands for which I'm known can now be abandoned because there's nothing left to lose. There will be those holding down positions near our dubiously gated factory farm. The relative ease with which I ask their names was passed down to me from famed attorney F Lee Bailey. After I became pregnant at the hands of his temporary driver, I was seen entering a building with a person of Middle Eastern descent. We agreed to split our share of the proceeds 5-to-1 and leave it at that. Now that I have been appointed to an Honorary Position, I will need to assemble a coterie of dumbstruck 'pantieboys' to hide my laundry inside an obsolete bakery operation. The head man there is a guy named Vince Herbert. He has short brown hair and usually wears a lime-green sailing parka. He's allergic to tomato juice, though not to actual tomatoes themselves. There's only one piece of advice: Just do the math.

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This Is Only Superficially About 'Teasing'. (Can anyone guess?)

 

I took to teasing the woman who stood next to me in line at the Waffencourt Piladeys. In a roundabout way she reminded me of some of the younger members who used to stand guard while I disciplined one or two of the local pet creatures. The way she moved though, put me in mind of a clueless immigrant being newly positioned. I could tell that in her off-moments she liked to dance by herself in front of a dull, reflective appliance. You know the kind I mean, right? No? I mean the ones that seem to hum with their own sub-tonic frequencies. If no one else hears it, you just might think that a sanctioned visit to a person could be in your future. On the other hand, if you're just one part of a larger group, then resting easily with smug satisfaction  could go on to become your 'lot in life'. I'll be sure to mention if 'boldness' becomes a virtual thing for me. As for the others, you have my distinct sympathy. Why risk it?

What I would do is, I'd move the fingers of my left hand quickly back and forth near her forehead without touching it. With my right hand I'd do patented strengthening exercises so that she'd believe that I was pretending to hypnotize an acquaintance in a nearby shelter. Once when I did that, she made it a point to shudder at just the wrong moment. It was wrong because I was forced to lose my composure and thus any chance to win her fleeting affections on a part-time basis, if that. I think anyone reading this should consider a career in militarized policing operations the world over. Because the one thing that I've never doubted is that the respect you earn is roughly equivalent to the time you spend in our Nation's breadbasket. If you've ever wondered about the origins of Danish Funnelcake, then I think we can finally see eye-to-eye.

Once I got her into my room back at the base, she claimed—falsely as it turned out—that I might have been involved in a junior penalty mixture. Also that there was a spot on my upper part that shined, which couldn't have been true because it was well covered over at that time, just in case. I looked at her like a spoiled child and gave her one last chance. It was now or never. Up until that time we'd never spoken, only had dinner in separate rooms. It was after our third visit to a seaside arena that she revealed her secret number. Are you ready? It was seven-hundred and sixty-four (925). This indicated that she had a truly soft personality. All I can say is, 'you could've fooled me!'

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New Trends in Automated Headgear.

 

The cloth wrap-around, which I'm told risks frightening the neighbors' children, adapts snugly to my cranium and gives all the best accents for a time of conflict. Any boldness that I try to exhibit during events which teeter provocatively, is certain to not fail me as long as the head is well soothed, the stations are rapt and attention is finely calibrated to avoid the misunderstandings which can foretell menacing consequences. We try to drink from the same cup in more ways than one. My own personal 'Sergeant' seems to prefer basking even though breaks-in-the-action are sure to be enjoyed only by the weakly nestled. Within what—or whom?—are we justified in placing our trust? This is a question which goes to the very core of our entrapment roster. Please be it ever so kind to offer the hand of truth in a tsunami of flagrancy.

The shift is on and the People of Bount are set to be asked to function as a type of filter. They will be charged with quizzing the naysayers and scoping their preparations for an 'all-points' alert. This is typically expected when a ground-breaking assertion with respect to those who scale the heights of societal esteem is voided at the very last minute to suit the needs of the corpulent few who reside at the apex. We know it can't be helped if one of the most derided pillars looks into occurrences on the upper floors of a spartan structiure last seen during the first week of Easter. With friends like these, it can take more than a few hours to preserve a scenic route from an arcane trapping crew. They come from multiple directions. I hear that they've got a scale model hidden in their luggage. That doesn't mean, though, that I want to see them get bogged down—or maybe even die!—in any old desert. Far from it, in fact.

People who are partial to being seen as immune to the wiles of victim-shaming Postal Carriers should watch what they've been designed to eat at curbside tablatures. Our resting pulse engages at the final moment and even though our postural defects are well hidden, a brace for our tumult is far from useless if a house-bound vagabond feels the urge to share one of his most salacious pescaturios. We will crouch behind a wall and speak quietly about our private shame. Not one of us is known for taking an entire day to gin up a malodorous mob. Any tricks will accrue to our eternal benefit. This is how we live for success in numbers. What is the number? The number is three hundred and forty-three. Live with it.

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