Life-Lessons Learned on the Battlefield of Contemporary Existence.

 

The saving grace is—and was!—that my feet, normally used to walking on the eggshells of modern social conventionalism, have attained a hard-won anchoring that only rank stolidity can provide. Three prior children of my fourth wife have duly arrived and have the run of the place which they've so long sought to deny. I can't say that I mind hearing them out. The vestibule sounds like a nice spot. I'll happily arrange to help them go over some of the pre-scripted remarks so that no one can say that they 'just made it all up'. That's just the kind of thing which some temporary health officer could be counted upon to blurt out, as if out of nowhere at all. The funny thing is, he never struck me either on the head or the arms, even if I thought nothing of breaching a contact flow. The availability of edible materials is never far from our thinking process. Someone whose opinion often gains parallel access wants it known that his flavor preferences run to the decidedly 'mild'. This shouldn't make him an object of scorn even as he goes about seeking redress in a haplessly forlorn manner.

Now the children are arrayed in a half-circle between Partitions 7 and 9 (the odd numbers encode signals from the Western periphery). Normally I prefer to go from one to the other, but on this night, as on all others, I have them taken at face value, if nothing else. They can be depended upon to redirect their innate fury at the one person whose bona fides will, in all likelihood, never effect the state of play. For my part, I can't understand what role I'm meant to play in the ongoing discussion. If the specialist requires that I cough into a marked linen sack, then so be it. If, however, someone is so bold as to make our asking price an object of rank vituperation, there will be no alternative but to inquire as to the national standard which he maintains at height in our corner grove. A person of his ilk will be given all the time he needs to feel settled. The shoes will be offered in consolation. If he becomes moist in return, I will see to it that his list is settled before injuries are sustained in the medium term. Here we mean minor scrapes and bruises, nothing more.

How have we not let the Bastion get the better of us in the foregoing eras? Anyone is privileged to guess color schemes and guiding principles. But, if they determine that one of our embattled former appointees is to be given the shortest of shrifts, then we're all but certain to detect barely muffled sobs during a post-prandial dunking session. Because, you know what? That's just what we'd expect you to say if you were held to task in a barely willowy pilot-beam. They've all but wrecked our expectation of leaving Stage 3 before someone gets violently ill. I can't tell if they've had too many ribbons applied. Some say that they can smell the difference. There's one thing you need to remember: that's a damnable lie! Mis-statements have a 'funny' way of becoming the Gospel Truth in this Ministry and Pastor Joe could use your help putting out this latest fire. Are you on board with our most secure stranglehold? Or, can we count you as 'black-pilled without context'? It won't suit our plans to have you snuffed out for good. That will be followed by a relaxing dinner on the Veranda. Please say you can't make it. It would be a real shame. Not sorry.

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This is a personal message for you, and you alone. [ALL OTHERS ARE PROHIBITED FROM READING]

 

 

As we move into a new month, I think you're going to see people who've been shielded (so far) from your way of doing things start to develop rashes neither in nor near their armpits. The fact that up till now they've resisted complaining about the way you've been said to treat a particular landscaper should not put you at ease if and when you discover some discolored markings within a mile of the parking facility that you made pains to avoid starting sometime just after the holidays. No one I've talked to thinks there's anything coincidental about it whatsoever. In fact, they're after me to launch either a probe or a whispering campaign. I don't plan on doing either. What I WILL do is take my good sweet time and make it a priority to include you in a round-robin I'm organizing that is supposed to kick off at just about the same time that your Mother is to be released from the Missouri State Correctional Facility.

I've resisted talking with you during my lunch hour because the way you've been observed to move your fingers while spitting into an empty cup makes my brain hurt. The one time I took you to a specialist, someone presented me with a pamphlet where nothing about our situation was even mentioned. And I found that a little bit hard to swallow. Even when I was digging under your house while you were away, I still had a not-so-funny feeling that certain people would start looking into beginning new types of activities. To a person they look down, smile, don a new outfit and traipse in front of my townhouse as if they haven't got a care in the world. Now they want me to include them in my secksual proclivities. It's plain to me that you've been telling tales out of school. Now I'd like to put in my two cents worth, if you don't fucking mind, okay?

In the space between where one thing ceases to begin and another starts to fade out altogether, you'll find that there's often a minuscule puck (about the size of my left thumbnail seen from five or six miles away). It's no longer purplish but has now taken on a golden hue. At this point I can practically hear you hissing as you sit alone in your den. I know for a fact that there's a Penn State pennant mounted on the wall opposite your blanching unit. People who've been there recently assure me that you still have trouble remembering the time we talked about a particular TV show. You've been known to try to influence a few of the younger members with tasteless remarks—often at my expense. Why do I get the feeling that we're on a collision course? Do you know that I've legally changed my name since our last fist fight? Would it surprise you to learn that one of our mutual acquaintances is modeled after a moderately well known figure from recent history? Is there anything?

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The 'Ruth Wingate' Scam Exposed!

 

In my native tropsicks I am  known as 'the salinder'. It is my duty to goad well considered trustees to banish non-compliant doofusses into a majestically lighted cylinder. There they will be approached individually, as well as in groups of two or three and made to lie down in the company of ground penetrating rebar. Unannounced as all reasonable measures should be, the insertion is set to be guided by defrocked clergy at the drop of a bat in a vat of fat-free unguent. Then we will apply a plainly astonishing amount of fletcher in the vicinity of their necessary foam. By the time my wife arrives from the Coast, all venerable assailants are to be engulfed in a hidebound tragisty of their own behooval. For this, and this alone, we are naked in the wind. You have a sour puss. Have you heard that before?

Once  up-wind from the Almighty Chauffeur, we are assaulted with mounds of pasty tumbwitch and annointed with a requisite dollop of feminized, neutrally colored lempodizical bolus. I acquired each of my companions by pretending to be a person named Ruth Wingate. As I grew more confident in my impersonation, I began adding touches of grim humor into my otherwise stentorian manifold. In the days before 'the problem' presented itself as if it emerged from a virtual nowhere, the barn where I'd discovered the final hoovers was sold to an outfit from 'down the way'. People started asking questions. I went all out and bought set of sawhorses to partition a peculiar area until further notice. No one knew where I got any of the firearms that were displayed in my shed. I said I'd put them aside if I was left alone in the shade. They aren't laughing now. No, why?

When trusted partners bestow a flammable nocturne upon a breeze-activated dimswitch, our final vapid loop engages a voluble societal pathogen in a gambit of absorbency and treacle. My own jamb is perfectly effective if, after one too many off-kilter bromads kites the spy, a pre-eminent physicalist is induced to shred his recent paper and take up residence in an immaterial goo. That will make our point very clearly but not before we rescind any late-century bluster that found a way to survive in the hack-infested igloo of socialist realism. Do you still have one?

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This is how these things usually play out. Are you in?

 

We could begin by agreeing to allow things to remain as they were before we were forced to decide. If that's what ends up being our choice, then the hair could be a problem. In fact, only one cellophane packet containing a sample was lost prior to being ripped from the frosty mitts of a commonplace lurker. How was it possible that he got in? The best of them are always one shot too narrowly focused on seeming transfixed. Now they'll have to pay in the only way they know how: by signing seven identical sheets of distributed paper and then fleeing into a foreign wooded area. The borders alone should make them tingle to avoid the obvious trap set by my enemies in neutral locatioins. We can lament all we like, but if we can't start to take seriously our place in the order of reputed pensioners, then no one who can afford any better will be in a position to request a new placement without which their strongest argument will go 'poof' in a Southern wind. That's why we believe you might have some talent as a 'soul' singer. You just look the part.

The brainiest girl who lives in my part of a filthy shack has told me that she misses looking into pools for lost sandboxes. Everyone thinks that we should try her out in half-length sleeves. It will help if she applies a strict color standard to her weekly chartable outcomes. I have asked her parents if they could join their emblem into a petulant bromad. They have assured my assistant that they will see to it that I receive an alluring scar which will allow me to prance about in an even more justifiably haughty manner. I have examined each of them for any recording equipment. Each has just such a device implanted in their panterior vulpnar. They've also promised a stultifying birdcall recital in the Spring. No one is sure that that's a game we have any interest in playing. As long as my desk sits in a common area, my safety is assured in a matter of seconds. This is how things get done. Listen and learn. But sometimes swallowing itself becomes overly broad. You know this.

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The Line Which Begs the Question.

 

There's a line which, when it closes in gently beside this head, everyone will finally be forced to admit to a range of findings.  Not one myself, I'll only be able to stand nearby, my arms placed just so, and undertake a task which is barely seen outside of trusted townsfolk. We've held them apart from the first time it became apparent that no one was in the mood for joking around. If one of us had something to say, we would generally think better of it and try to estimate the time it would take to hold ourselves apart from a terribly likely current.

The pause which those of us in the back beheld at our significant peril, can only be adduced to the woman whose innocuous soldier is now being held for an impartial briefing in the sullen manner seen in these types of incidents. Some darker purpose is served when a location is scouted for an (until now) secret meeting. I was asked to expose my rampant judiciousness to every kind of paltry scenario. In the event of a brighter fusion, all our stumbling relatives will be delivered unto a raving mob of teenage putrescence. All of our worries are encapsulated in a brief account designed to elicit a standing freeze of onboard restrictions. Large moves are from now on to be forbidden. Even the smaller ones will take some getting used to. By which I mean that you may not be invited. Don't worry, they'll come for you eventually. It's now or later. Pick one and leave your stuff with my punctured bailiff. He won't ask for your name because he knows it's none of his cotton picking business.

Why do some of us like to go around to the houses of former neighbors and install devices which we know will not help us win any upcoming popularity contests? Could it be because deep down, when we know no one is looking, our appetite for copious intrigue helps us 'double down' when 'starting over' is and never will be an option in our case? Because if that's true then some of our least finest molecules will be exposed to a prurient dose of previously non-available light. And then we'll start coupling and re-coupling, until all our favorite journeys stop being written about in ways that have us doubting our creepy life choices. You will give me one for my head. The line will go on stringing itself, lighter every day until sometime soon nothing will be seen at all.  Even your love of simplified folk melodies will be questioned. Can you see how this ends up? No? Then please try again, if you would.

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Onkers.

 

Once she's netted her Oblamore position near a spot where I count on what friends I may still have to pretend to stop spitting at me, she will be awarded a black and white coverling and I will consider scouting out a pay-ball locution which suits us to within a fictional 'T'. Some seem to have an opinion at odds with the preferred social flame retardant. A day in the flavor is not without its charms but you will excuse me if I fail to evince the proper level of excitement, won't you? We'll be pleased to share a laugh at someone's expense if we can obtain their approval beforehand. This will give us a promotional opportunity to announce clear guidelines for action in the coming days. Some of them are courting disaster by their very appearance at locations of choice. The others are deemed inexcusably referenced and abandoned in a dusty rinkmod of their own making. I will get you a slip of paper. Then you will be shown a diagram of yourself infiltrating a piece of crafted wood. It shouldn't be this easy. But it is. Onkers.

Even if every third child could be persuaded to try to impress someone with a high 'crust factor' to join them in practicing fetal positions during the occasional Solstice, it would still fall to our betters to engage each and every sterling vagabond to respond to a hoarding accusation with an engineered 'slip of the tongue' and lapse into a brocade of sentimental bums. Especially when even their own houses are fleeing them, you would think that some would take a small measure of satisfaction from the movements of radio-effective fluids. That would not be the last time a ball was dropped in the lap of someone too tall to know better. Please don't give me that, okay?

With the score at better-than-even, the time which we apply to our reign of thrills is not seen to be wasted while in the back a dram of coppertine could still be a pill to the risk of failure. A former co-worker is likely to notice that one of our faces 'just doesn't look right'. We believe it would be a good idea to see if we can get him the help he needs. One of the hands in his case belongs to that of the scandal-scarred District Attorney. He was observed talking to a transgendered Asian female at a major airport in the time it takes to rust a socket. All of our ploys have activated a forlorn felon and, just like that, a ship is in the bag. All that remains is the 'blame game' and a scrugg won't be so nettlesome if you learn to eat it with honey and chives. No, this doesn't count as 'trimmings'. Peace.

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Sales Slips: A Bold New Use-Case.

 

There's a partially obstruded sales slip that I'm using as a sort of a wrinkled shade to shield a sensitive area on my upper torso where Mrs. Kemnick had recently scored her own private 'victory parade' when her assistant informed her that I was entering the fourth stage of non-vitiated coma, or so the two of them thought. In my private quarters during the previous osmantis of seconds, while they scurried about to prepare for the evening's 'festivities' I had locked a miniature pin inside the tail end of a discarded toothspray nozzle which had been hovering provocatively within earshot of several of the most recent pair of blind siblings we'd been instructed to lead into the path of victory.

If at one time a child's seashell collection was placed at an angle to be replayed at the subsequent trial, no one could have foreseen what would become of my contiguous attorney, Mr. Raymond Buchwald. Before his emerging prosthesis could be bandied about any further, as if to demonstrate the foldable quality of time itself, one could resolve to never be observed without a tasteful accessory or two. This would aid us in restoring a sense of proportion to those who exaggerate while personally invested in an ancient scene of barren fieldwork. I am certain that even with the approval of a maximally entrancing lissome young nurse-practitioner, not one person will feel it necessary to withhold a wad of sacred cotton from the disparate fingers of legions of repressed needlepoint minions.

The way the rays of artificial arc-light illuminate the scene of desultory, icy knackerie, some of our number have got it in their artificial heads that I am to be awarded a 'Summons to Delay' and thus be considered off the hook for whatever random excesses of which I'd previously been so unfailingly accused. The plan is likely to worsen my already acrid complexion and cause one and all to override a telltale negritude of my oven-ready particulated scanty fleck. This will help to betray knock-on effects of those whose steady armature will require continuous readjustment when our plane arrives in a gust of sober declensions.

If, as seems probable, I have failed to enter the proper set of figures into the assigned ledger, I will count on the eventual reader to relive troubling childhood scenes at a pleasing angle of doubt. Thus we might still be allowed to swim with a rectilinear partnership in a foul-mouthed 'mind-at-large'. Because now we can feel our readiness to delay to be at one with a fairly loathesome de-maculated string dispenser of our very own. Only then can we rest. The remainder awaits your lurid skidmarks. As I think I might have told you, 'they just don't make them like that anymore'. What say you?

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