Terms of the Agreement.

 

The agreement that we reached with the participant who exercises dominion over this segment of the Sector obligates us, if a patch is ever to be undone, to regale a living portrait of the founding faction with recordings of troubling machinery. But a switch which we have parlayed into a tidy, if swarthy, nest egg, is never to be exchanged for oblerments without explicit direction from those whose rumored existence is above all else, or likewise our common kitty will be splundered and a decoy splayed into finite grumblings for the pleasure of salutary Viscounts.

When, at the behest of said Viscounts, I pull our singular volunteer aside and motion for her to appear comatose lest we arouse suspicion, it occurs to me that this game I've been playing since the fifth day is almost at a point of culmination. I retract my artisanal third limb from a sorting device, launch into a needless expiation and arrive at a brief pre-climax opportunity for banter while offering her a pilfered portion of luckmeat from our stationary trunk. Avoiding restless vagabonds in our search for the common meat is thought to be a trap for the unweary; that is to say, those who avoid sitting within the range of pleasant wooden cottlings are soon to be appointed to launch a vainglorious night of tricks without any regard for whatever rear-echelon pliant skank boldly shrinks from a wavering pustule.

The flag that I seem to remember retaining for that final bland eruption is now hanging with all the rest in a forlorn resting pattern which resists any effort to entangle in a storm so blank that a germ forgets its route through a decadent shrine. This is why it matters so much. The lingering breach which floats to the surface of olfactory dreams, lives to disarm the love of flavors in a boldly encountered Episcopal pilot. He surrendered his life for a chance at harboring a crystal channel and earning a rapt epigram at my fourth funeral. The grieving process has only just begun and I'll do my best to get you switched out for one of the rampant pansies who mope in our yard for scraps after dark. Is this a 'thing'? (Yes)

_________________________________ 

August Bonus Material

 

It wasn't a good fit.  This calls for a rounding error and not one creepshot to please 'the Missus'.  Why are the lower rungs so approachable when even Mary Richardson is steeling herself for a long drawn drag-out fight with the Fipperburg's baby person? It will not show you a free-style move, but, if you stop playing your cards right, my only sister, Velma Thorp, might exhibit a hankerin' to give it a go and be done with her non-entity status once-and-for-fucking-all! This I will tell you, young man, and not a moment too soon,.. because the one who stands with the briefest allowed wedding shift will still profit when all not-so-decent approximations of 'things' fail to meet a ladder on the high blood-count quotable trail-mix arrest pansy. What calls out my own face is one tiny thread or threat and the danger is not real, or as unconvincing as a polymath is able to arrange to make it, unless one of us is missing something all too essential to continue breathing what passes for air in this marginal  neighborhood. When I tell my side of any type of account, my face starts to resemble a mottled frame and I am doomed to live out my days in an abyss of dignity and discharge.  My own poly-unsaccaride count is approaching zero, but we, the Missus and me, are 'feeling no pain' with a lemon-teal covering, a fright wig, not a shout to encase the Bolton Muffin Shield purchased last winter, all but falling apart now,.. and I'll tell you what, the name which keeps coming up for us is 'Juanita Clermont'. She seems not-nice enough, though one will say, in a candid moment, that the stress is stress-free and all our moments ring with a management trainee's odor, but your whisp is flailing, a tail too grave and a lung-betty cannot spare the insight.  Could you or the one after, not engage in a cooling manifesto or some similar? You, a bit more chipper than necessary, have apparently subscribed to the issue in Month 5, thereby avoiding any mention of the game to leak my positive test results. Or, if not, we will exhibit it in a solid way throughout the Summer of Pain at affordable prices wherever felt imitates a coffee rind, plastic over shadow, and the one we kill will always, or once in a tardy period, slap a whole lot of purses in our face for inspection. We have yet to schedule an announcement detailing the particulars of their fraud and deceit. White could never be a conversation starter after slate is picked for Final Option Four. But by now, any drill that could have ever been considered to have started, is but a few moments from complete depletion.  It will still be a day when all is finished, too bold for a light jacket, but you may not, even now, release your splindly ass for inspection by our trusted partners. That's right, everyone just thought it was perfectly fine to refer, in a smirking fashion, to Pepper the Pelvis. (Please fill in the circle; since agreement is mandatory, we'll sweat this in pairs. Don't look less than three times).A semi-indecent assembly scar event seems to be carrying the day with our group and the tameness reflected in the circuit alliance stands to once again give comfort and (at least) seven partially shining cakes for our trouble. A back soaks just fine, but the fear is in an ovoid configuration (metaphorically speaking, please be assured), but just any old temple could be spared, if Tampu can be believed. Wake while a bone card is still able to carry the day, your hip may hold you to a meditation agreement and we are told, in confidence, that a rooting interest is a minimum requirement to hold one's own when a doubling of replies is the fantasy of the moment. The person of your former chauffer will be seen to enact a withered proxy-by-dental-protein banishment incision. The pull of it is so very lively, but all at once the dust lacks a name and a word we tried thinking of is blank. If so then you may have fallen for the very same trick again, this time with flap in hand, crease in forehead and a slim-to-none chance to bearing witness to how the game is 'really' played. The Third Father is known for intending to keep an antic of this sort within easy reach, as to the sold-out portion, you can have that too. But only when a calling could be made to float, in its own supported lerquid, again a film develops, night falls without a hitch. Repeat and follow with a foundering dumbth. The color operation merely a graded melée. We can/cannot promise one pale fellow will meet your plane with/without a scandalizing mood disorder.  In fact, for a ring we've developed paler than the pattern it infects, the one see-through metric of note, a partial sighting delay or expectation of same, is par for the course. But only the tip which we treasure in our body-positive naiveté, is a grasping, ever beyond markups, in our nightmare profile ejecta. The first fire-code deceit: usually reserved for the all-but-nominally dead. We don't approach these gambits with anything approximating pleasure. I had read my manuals, flouted the approved guidelines, secured a divorce settlement, abandoned my pets at the airport, even scoured the greater Milwaukee metroplex for a germ decision unit, in short done everything in my power head off any possibilty of a diminution of my prerogatives at this critical juncture. The fear is palpable but waning. . The stiversity that was her former mode, now all but forgotten was to become, in the hands of a rational actor, just a pittance withheld on demand for peanuts or less. All to no avail however, because whichever way one pulls it, one solid fiber never fails, and this is the one we fought within, a regard for a state faction restored for the Mossbat Era, barely begun, now primarily a joke of one. No, it's more like a strategy option, we only fold when a brisk, tidy oval is (virtually) plunked forth, a suspicious calmness sets in and my personal box is set aflame, after dinner perhaps?  Why? In what central corral are our feelings to be restricted for the benefit of a truly powerful segment of the remaining population at war with itself over trivial notions of their cause's correct interpretation? Our private naps would continue as before, only now with a soiled tone for contemplation and renewal. It hurts her but who's wilting with glee? . If you can imagine a dog's leg encased in amber (at a museum, say) then you have striven far enough in your efforts to earn the plaudits of the typically well turned-out young woman-about-town. A management trainee of my acquaintance has squandered her life savings in a polo pony breeding profile which looks to be the first radar-assisted back-end deployment magnet to make it out of beta before my second son tragically met his end in a bowling experiment gone even worse than 'bad'.

Notice to Members and non-Members: Memorization of the above text is mandatory.

Please don't force my hand.

____________________________________________

Look what happened to John Murphy.

 

It was solely because of the alternative range-of-motion exercises, forced upon us during the waning days of the trial, that we now saw fit to exchange our version of a 'knowing glance' with an abstracted guard who sauntered in our wake and made small noises using an implement that he never seemed to lack.  We could not tell whether or if the pleasing tone of our passing would be maintained or if, upon assumption of our underwater duties, a frail drill would be enough to force enclosure on the recently absorbed.

As I have informed the trained half of our taunted partners, the braining regimen for even one fortunate sibling would obligate the remainers to enable a cessation of periodic noldency. Whenever a pasture is to be excavated, it's only for the pleasure of the degendered scrofulents in our motley assortment of vacated absconders. What could even begin to suit us is a question for those whose thoracic pressure maintains appropriately dimensioned bevels. A liberated carpenter whose disc we used to exchange for rose-implected petals is rumored to express a fear of rising to a heat-seeking challenge. Is a scalloped pattern anything by which to render a harsh judgment? It's not as if any old kind of plated kidney farm could be yanked out from under us like so many apprehensive blitutis docs.

As of now, a generic seeding trolgent is emerging into a low-light, high-impact, trace environment and multiple finger surgeries are of the essence. But when our shortest thrilling virgin, Marty Jepson, is finally located in a dilapidated halfway house in Trenton, Colorado, our ears pick up the scent of a high-falutin' imbroglio gone bad. It's up to us to stick with the plan and not let some elderly widow prance in and take the gold, in a manner of speaking. If anyone thinks that an adhesive lifestyle would prove more provocative, they're welcome to try it out for themselves. As far as we're concerned though, we've been in that barn before and the door was slammed in our faces. All the nuts in town thought they'd get a piece. We had to poison every last one of 'em! When jobs cry out for completion, a jaundiced outlook won't get you any stock options, but a sterling tolerance for abominable seating options is a sign of premature maturity in one so young. Our hats are off in a way that only a high level operative can appreciate. Try to see this from our vantage point and the world is yours. Look what happened to John Murphy.

_____________________________     

A Waiting Game; In Earnest This Time.

 

She will wait for them to return with it from a 'bad' part of town. Despite what some wish to believe, her father has a stereotyped way of walking that once in a while puts a great many bystanders at ease. 

It's about time too, because all that anyone feels like discussing is how novel the approaching atmosphere feels, at least to those whose lives have taken a turn upward. But the gem that will be saved from an imminent dissolution is barely a rumor to the kind of smarty pants office clones whose lunch we will have when all is said and done.

The small room in which she waits is a new one to her. Even though she remembers giving birth there, the memory is roundly false since it's a known fact that the room was only constructed after her oldest son turned five which was, if I'm being honest, in the neighborhood of sixty five years ago. In any event, she likes to rustle papers while she waits. It gives her a feeling of usefulness. Not to mention it's a good way to pass the time away from the TV. She likes to worry that her favorite show will be canceled. There's a peculiar zest to the schedule of worrying she's adopted, as if certain moments have a legitimate importance. Why does she handle domestic items only while wearing latex gloves? Again, it's all about an emotional valence. She just can't get enough. They plough her minimally, though. Why? They tell her it's for the good of the entire grouping of folks. They've had it.

Now you think you know, but do you really? I'd be happy to arrange for something that has knots in it to be placed somewhere inside an office park. That way you can feel it folding in upon you and you

won't get scared, at least not before the night turns.

So when they do finally return, they do so in way that's said to be empty-handed, thus encouraging a disappointment in this matron of a certain age. Among the many armchairs she's destroyed in her golden years is one that I'm sure you've seen before I decided to entertain a newfound interest in Gnosticism. You can see that what appears to be a small crank in the rear is genuinely fake. It helps to keep people alert. They'll need it in the coming panic. Now, as never before, some objects will not go quietly, or at all. Which is why I don't think she'll mind. Just please remember to bring all your receipts. That way it won't look 'sloppy' when certain uncomfortable questions are asked. The clipboards too. That'll get 'em every time. Watch out. The males tend to be more dangerous.

____________________

A Question of Personal Preferences.

 

What is it that makes me want to tie certain people to particular clues left behind after I walloped a guy who butt in to a well considered exchange of ideas and opinions? Could it be because all around our unit neighbors report a cascade of odors which foretell a tragic delay of routine licensing procedures? It may be that I'm imagining too many television programs which have never seen the business end of a control panel. It's also not entirely impossible that a forlorn associate who needed time off to transport his aging Mother to a podiatry clinic was suffering from Oppositional Dismissive Disorder [ODD]. Nonetheless, I resolved to send a cure-all through the Postal System in hopes that it might reach the affected party. What I didn't know at the time was how long it would take to get situated in our Nation's Breadbasket once I'd put my mind to it. In what other time in history could one measly stinker hold such sway over obese decision makers and their insufferable retinues? And, by the way, please don't be under the illusion that this is any kind of 'rhetorical' question. Because, if you do, a future guest might get bumped off.

I know by now that what could clinch the deal would be the kind of performance which most grown-ups would be loathe to find indelible in the extreme. In their faces you can see the doubts start to crack, revealing all manner of isolated allegiences. To the contrary, one of our daughter's finest moments was when she turned to my wife (her genetic mother) and said something which neither of us will ever forget. It happened one night at about 2:29 AM, in the last week of June 2006. I'd been studying the Bible in my den when, all of a sudden, there was a loud crashing noise coming from our neighbor's carport. It sounded like someone had strung together some pots and pans, and then decided to sit down, very calmly, and write a short note to a former acquaintance from the copper shielding industry. Weirdly for that time of night, I saw a group of middle-aged men gathered at the corner down the block. They all wore tunics of varying muted colors. That's what gave them away. Never before have I felt so personally violated.

You'll find that if you use a soft-cell grip on the shorter end, no one will think twice about including you in some harmless repartee. It's a guarantee that, even if they look in your general direction, no one will feel it necessary to go overboard. They'll stick to the basics. Once that's taken care of, there might be a short ride. If the car is a late model affair, it would be a good idea to bring something to wipe down the seat after you get out. When everyone offers to hold hands in a display of infantile solidarity, we advise you to get your bearings in the overall atmosphere. Watch for subtle signs of disapproval. These can be in the slope of the eyebrows, the angle of the wrists or even a mildly haughty tone when asking for a moment of silence. When all is said and done, you have to admit that a mainstay of ineligible narcolepsy is for those of us not otherwise burdened with secondary market devices to do the bare minimum to ensure a peaceful transgression. How could anyone think otherwise?

__________________________

Charges of Biased Coverage Proven False!

 

There's been a remarkably cogent whispering campaign around town contending that our coverage has been purposely slanted this way and that. Apparently, it was all about currying favor and lording it over the little guys. The trouble is, they just can't be trusted to remain motionless while we strike our shards against their levees. They'll always find a way to move microscopic pieces of slate into a shelter so the review process can begin in earnest. My wife is at her wit's end trying to beat them into submission. It won't take long for her to become tuckered out and have to get on the next bus back to Ohio, USA. I've been racking my brain to see if I can figure out a way to have her arrested for plunging my temporary household into a veritable minefield of sloth and deception. She just won't let go with the corny jokes already, and I'm sick of it. Pardon me if I seem petty, but I've never noticed that your knees look like old people's faces. Is there a way to block that?

It's when someone on loan from the Getty Museum starts to get under my skin that I begin to wonder out loud at all hours about the effect my hair has on fabricated stewardesses writ large. Some claim not to have ever noticed. Others say that it's all they ever think about. As for me, I'm on the fence and have no intention to get off anytime soon. They say his name is Paul Stumart. He stands about 5'6" and has a trendy coifurette. You wouldn't know it from looking at him, but his Dad was seen one time entering a building. This would have been in the late '90s when such things were all the rage. The thing was, he never had the guts to pull it off without leaking little droplets into the breast pockets of people who never knew any better. When they came to me out of sincere desperation, I could tell that they were given the royal run-around and made into a laughingstock from square one. By dint of my tireless application process, they're now expected to arrive before sundown in a converted lawn cowl of some distinction. But, one thing is very important to understand, to wit: this isn't really very far from where I get my legs done. Which is another way of saying, there won't be a problem.

________________________  

Just Another Typical Day in the Life of the Proprietor of This Gosh-Darned Blog.

 

Upon awakening, we consult the voluminous user's guide, which, for some unexplainable reason, gives ever shorter shrift to our own measly efforts in the compatibility department. Yes, in fact, I have dunked three sample paperettes in the fluid provided, by the milli-liter if needs be, and still can find no trace of the one element which we prize above all. Below the level of the temporary markings, anyone who desires a novel inception is asked to offer sufficient praise to a dimensionless point not three inches behind the head of an indentured peon provided for just this purpose. It's quite common to find him and those of his type endeavoring to scrape the insides of barrels while those on the topside leak improvident details into the ongoing stream of toxic discourse. This will give the remainder of them time to assemble at a parade ground of our choosing to nominate a hamfisted inebrient to be our experimental subject du jour. It won't hurt if you let them take us back in time to when branchings and crossings muddled the previously pristine melodological imperdictions.

When I turned over on to my wife's back and realized that her memory was now fully erased, I felt truly comfortable for the first time in as many seconds. I abandoned my late model sedan in a ravine, concealed the suspicious apparel in the trunk of an aged steamer and set out on foot to see if I could find anyone to help me with my escalating social anxiety disorder. Once I rounded the corner and set up shop, I found that I had more customers than anyone had the right to believe I could handle, least of all yours truly. After she revealed her first name, it was clear that she had been lying from the very beginning. All of us took turns offering to get in touch with someone she claimed to have never met in hopes of sparking  a small, yet subtle, assent. She wasn't having any so it was all I could do to avoid trouncing her right then and there. Look, we've all had our issues, and, quite frankly, I'd be the last one to think that I could just waltz in undiscovered, and find myself enrolled in a randomized, double-blind stuffing stuffer the size of I-don't-know-what. If you've ever touched base with the person we all know as, simply, Jib, then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. You have my symphony.

You see, this is all about tracking undiluted substances as they course their way through the nerve wracking systems of our adjusted playbook plagiarists. They won't have far to go before we have them dead to rights and all the rings in a closed basquette won't do a thing to get them off our collective back. In the event of explosive devices placed with all due caution in a moxied grid plattern, any clerk who we may have assaulted in the recent past is to report immediately if the various handwriting samples don't match up. We'll take it from there, but not before everything is demarcated, as if for the first time ever. It won't take much to see how you react in an emerging democracy. They think they have all the answers. I'm sorry, but there aren't any. Answers, I mean. Can it. 

__________________________