Sonic Encapsulation Goniff

_______Another Seemingly Non-Inconsequential Event, _________Truly Indicative of the Current Milieu.

It was just this past weekend that I met with Don Beckner. We were drinking beer in the garage behind his house when my cellphone rang.  It was my wife.  She'd been going through some old files in the attic and came across an old newspaper clipping that detailed an encounter between Don and a man named Herman Mackey. In addition to being one of the pioneers of orthodontics back in the fifties, Mackey had swindled my half-uncle Leo Farncosa out of his quarter-interest in a semi-booming wholesale muffler distributorship out near the Five Highway Easement. Some folks just want to forget those days, but that's for another time. Anyway, while my wife nattered on, Don turned his back to me and went over to the workbench. I saw no reason to be afraid, even though I knew better. I smelled burning hair and got a hard-on. This always happens, I just don't know why.

_____________________________

Another Secret Stain

A loop which was, this time, where a cape was intended to exist, 

raised my hope barely at all, but the shoulder I shared with the wife 

I'll try to think about today, approaches near enviable status, and the 

same thing was once said in defense of phase delight upholding the 

standards set in lieu of any sense of a 'rule book' held in a common 

secret area.  Or, try donating an explicitly sanitized unguency pattern, 

and what becomes apparent is that the shield which is thought to portend 

the entrance to a 'middle period' extension, becomes just one more useless 

haranguing gesture on the way to a general enfeeblement of our ability 

to wax set-hindranced, when pouting murmurs would have done the job 'just fine'.

The doubling of macro PK at this point in the time line is not without precedent, 

and the fraud which has enabled score-settling on a semi-massive scale still shocks 

the conscience of a non-whelmed voluntary circuit Jesus handheld divorce piquancy. 

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.

It's just another secret stain, one that may ultimately 

transfix an entire blasted oriental cookware particle 

face nostrum, but only in a sick, heaving, trial-period 

announcement threshold perimeter judgment vehicle 

swap zone. And your own face, to put it only semi-mildly, 

is just milk-grain to my ranking in the Top Fog Mutation 

Assortment. That's what you get for praising Mantle Bum 

Forgery, in your sick, sold-out sleep pattern delay hypothesis, 

you rascal, you!


_______________________________________________

The Rage of Glyphs.

And if it falls in our lap, all we might consider is to cease the straining effort and to learn a sly lifting motion,.. which is apt to conceal our characteristic treatment of Living Space. Along side a docile animal which licks furiously in a backward fashion, the tribute to a leaden wonder-fluff encounter may be seen taking place on the perimeter of the Fork Trant Proving Felicity Hazard Fan Thud Mixture. The only sign of failure is the ever weakening odor of blended sanctified ost-wismer with a not insignificant tinge of Rudin's flood insurance profile having been seen through and discarded, all for the sake of a creation narrative of dull foam which hastens a totally cool departure of our most cherished pin-braised onctalassit fint burkler.

Those of us who sit through the pageant and wipe our hands of the whole putrid spectacle are less and less apt as 'the time' approaches, to risk believing (not for the last time) in current notions of 'pause and inflect'. 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.

But the trouble you say we requested does not shift your bane to merely fluid oxygen. It always goes that way, and the depressed person, referred to in Police Documents as Hidlery Moscat, is even now gaining certainty by the second. But the recommended approach now turns out to be a fainting gesture, a plug which always silences the Rage of Glyphs, but none of us has even the smallest desire to apologize. So, you could take that sort of thing, run it through a wind farm and just be done with it, or just vaguely nod and hope that I'll perhaps forget. But why would I? It doesn't serve my long-term interest in explosive orgasms.

The Non-Specific 'Crunch-for-Thou' of Persons in One's Own League.

Not to be outdone by the League you represent, that,
one day, unknown to all but a very few, the Tense opens
and so begins the nightly approach to the 'Gamed-In'
Substrate of the likeliest of all busted folds. Anoint to the
Portion of Tube-Bin-Pall, Gerunder Portal Sun Swath, sower of
Doper Ben Plath, sunken trangent Sulphur Mother Met staph,
Groan in the Opener, the Bearer of Gated Whiskets a don, seven
Toms' focus room-ambient token floss budget buster. To keep,
at most, one small announcement in place, demands from one
a quiet rage that, above all, in place of this, we take as a given,
a barely sequenced grim target promenade, to give but one
very febrile sostenum without resorting to a satisfying grunt. 

___The Machinations of the____ __Brandywine Lane Collective.__

Already a 'not turned' quality has absorbed my attention, 

or at least what little of it may be left after my third divorce. 

The only patient who still used the vanity hallway, is a person 

of 'micro interest', inside of whose studied indifference is an 

insufferably jaded coping strategy, not countenanced by your 

appalling lack of any sort of being-sense. As, at a moment of my 

choosing, pointed comments will fly, but a rough type of breathing 

(however phony it may actually be) will go at least part of the way 

to enable the ensemble fight-scene, worked over for years, not to 

delay a pill, for chosen most will be neither still nor ready 

to retrieve a baked-in dose of Plantoni Brand slandered brain orthotic 

muff gristle. And, the fool you are, you thought it wouldn't be this easy, 

but I'll bark at you before my main food. The joy we feel is your

 walking-around jack.

It never isn't the grain which we insisted she pull, 

over and above the price of faking the overhead lighting 

situation for all to see, but shame you had not, just a 

not-quite-invisible marvelous routine hostile work/dance circle. 

(Please fill in the circle; since agreement is mandatory, 

we'll sweat this in pairs. Don't look less than three times).

Rick and Loomis stand to be the main beneficiaries 

of this horrendous longterm dispute resolution department 

betrayal gambit. As for those in your well-disdained 

affinity cohort abuse network surrender format, you know 

where you may be able to place a dull object rendered 

not only inactive, but actively obsolete by the machinations 

of the Brandywine Lane Collective, don't you? 

Let her out, will you!! Your refusal to respond is 

even more grounds for spreading titillating invective 

than anything dreamed up at Shoe Parlor Sundance 

Ridge Vaporization Glitterbug Assault Passive 

Surmounters' Clique. And it won't get any easier 

after that, you can be assured.  

Unknown Non-Arrival Numbers and You

What struck most of us who were there, was a small (about 3cm) blunt
object. The person in charge was behind it. That's why we couldn't
see if it was a 'man' or a 'woman'. Not that it would have mattered
anyway. We try to always follow our Deep Inner Knowingness. In this
case it led us to a mobbed up lawyer named Vinnie 'the Quince' De
Puntamelianovuggams Seawitch. He related youthful  camping experiences while we waited for drinks to be served. 

I snuck a glance at my watch and realized it was time to produce a specimen, as per my conditions of parole. I ducked into a side vestibule and began inserting the device. Time was precious because I didn't have

any. In any other year I would have taken this as an omen. But not this year. Not by a long shot. Hey, I'm not known as a 'gosh-darned so-and-so' for nothing.

I am one who is known to be a 'devotee' of the Precious Interval.

Between grasping for even the most paltry respect and allowing a

fetid sigh to escape my lips it's all I can do to maintain stability

within my 'family situation'. Is it exemplary of my customary pig-headedness that I refuse to lay down in the street for the right of qualified youth to lift the veil on the 'lying life'? The Graded

Control Segment is starting to seem like so much grim ballow, and the purse-consulting panty-waists who rule the roost are has-beens and never-weres who would cough on my bread if I didn't beat them

regularly.

The picture you want is posted on a most-nasty Staff Board,... the rip you feel is off the scales in my book. Terrible crud. Trust and no one will seem any different than before,....ie 'strut my guff, NOT walk the puff'. It's happening. Can you feel it yet? No, of course not. Just so poorly equipped.

 The pressure is just too great, and as a result I've had it up
to 'here'. It started not too long ago in a location hereinafter
referred to as 'narrow'. That is, it (the location) is notable for
its quality of being 'narrow'. Why did I mention this when there are so many other aspects to this thing? Is it because as a young person I was given to violent fits of timidity? Could it be due to developmental delays engendered by my Mom's glue-sniffing habit when she was pregnant with me? Be that as it may (and it WILL), there's only one choice that will not immediately involve the police. I will leave it to you to decide what that could be. 

In the meantime I must tell everyone about my new car. It's a Mask Z-9 with a 242 cu. in.manifold displacement differential and an aspect ratio of .23 over seven to the negative twelve power. The thrills that gush through my very veins when I drive around town are equaled only by the shame I feel while watching the 'news'. Where will it end? Who benefits? When do I get mine? Is it almost over? Will the Moon crash into the Sun at warp speed? Do I have the guts to tell my sister I'm in love with her? Why do my ears bleed at sunrise? Who will even begin to consider if these questions have knowable answers? 

As ever, we await your considered responses in the comment section. Thank you.