The Oxball Shirt-Ripping Incident.

One time on a day very much like today, in a town surprisingly like this one, topologically at least, a person some say resembles me in our mutual enigmatic health statuses, decided to maintain a tolerable distance from the likely antagonist who stole both our bicycles at age six and a half . My yellow hair was just coming in and his brother lost his left ring finger in the Vietnam War. Both my parents and his were observed by Pennsylvania Law Enforcement to be driving erratically. I never knew any of this until the last four and a half seconds. The reason I had a bowel movement yesterday at three PM is because it just felt right, is all.

I know this all sounds crazy, but hear me out, okay? While my modesty is under question, and my height is in some dispute, the plain, uncontested (and uncontestable!) fact is that the sister who I always believed to be my best friend and confidante, was witnessed defacing the Burrstown War Memorial while dressed as a prominent murdered doily salesman. Something's gotten into her lately, and I don't mean that literally, as in 'a foreign object has entered her body uninvited'. No, I mean the ideas she's always spouting, the rules she's flouting and the frankly bizarre proclivities she's been flaunting for all to see like just so many data points that can only lead to the inescapable conclusion that something is terribly wrong.

When it comes to interesting hobbies, the name that always comes up for me is Jarvelle Hentrison. Why? Well, it's because a name like that when uttered in a frankly annoying sing-songy fashion requires the speaker to align their hips and jaws in a way that resembles the folk-dancing fad that swept our local area just after the Kennedy assassination. I knew Lee Harvey Oswald. He was a friend of mine. We collected samples together. He used to give my Dad a ride to the airport. I'll always remember the time he accidentally ripped his shirt while playing Oxball. Some of us laughed. Others became constipated. My own fear was compounded until my eyebrows flaked . But did Lee ever try to assassinate anyone? Not hardly! Case closed.  

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The Ranch Dressing Conundrum.

The single piece. By no means the last one of its kind, but maybe the last one we'll run into today. Where someone obtains these kind of things is anybody's guess. It's why I'm proud of all the foreign type of objects I managed to sell before my parents hit the skids. It could be characterized as my trademark, if you will. A placid scene. Barely any raunchy jokes. But (and this is kind of weird), one joke, a quite memorable one in fact, about a ranch. Well, ranch dressing actually. You know how sometimes if you're not careful, ranch dressing can get all over your hat? Well, that's how I felt. I scraped my knee. The hat went in the pool. Now there's dressing in the pool. But it's Thousand Island dressing because we ran out of ranch. 

We're so glad my operation is a 'thing of the past'. It was a cruel indicator of how far we've come. All of us coveted dimpled ivory tooth combs during that era. Why was it so difficult to hold our hands at our sides during a general alarm? Is it because my memory of common items in a gray-scale is attenuated by the ever present onyx dust? A mute control could keep you safe while a parallel list practice is overblown at height. With casner rates being what they are, is it any surprise that someone would find a solution to the pantanelle problem lurking in plain sight without a surgical hold to stanch the nectiraded bile flow in germophobic citizen pantry frauds?

Look, it's something we've talked about for (literally) years. And I can tell you this: if the one person I had to learn to trust with everything I had, can get a pleasant Spring Break brochure lodged in the drainage sequencer of a character who goes by the name of Barbara Bin-Woffer, esq. (not her actual name) and over-bring the telltale signs of 'lights in the breeze' to a table of six, then this crag won't float! That's the long and the short of it. And the Master Pass? Forget it! 

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See You Sunday!

And now, for the next plugram, we'll be less sure. A safe distance will remain unacknowledged, but noticed all the same. A sedulent preclone is forecast to be a willing, if not unenforceable formerly pale, one-time member. It's a certainty that our dream of waiting for a stern coating to meander, as to trustworthiness, is all but forgotten, but only if one shy ungrateful delinquent is to be based in the Phoenix, Alabama courthouse basketball sensitivity threat.

This is where a person I've known for over six and a quarter weeks will possibly come into play. He's a onetime castmember of my failed Bronx Corridor show. He had kept a ring which resembles a steel grommet in his left shoe for good luck. He hails from a longterm family of developmentally disabled mineral deciders. When his late father approached Judge Newberg with a plan to escape the Flood of '91, it was off to the workhouse in all but name only. The one thing I still regret is that I couldn't appeal to his innate love of gallivanting to defuse the air-pressure problem in my Spring Wax Committee location syndrox.

We've only just begun to see the problem for what it is, to wit: a seemingly charming but decidedly deadly slapdash prontlum bit to sever the invisible hand from the basket of a shad breeding tunnel. When a foreign tread emerges unscathed, yet deciferous, my vacuous pre-teen assistant marketing director only wants to keel in a lump, while trying to trick the band. It won't work. I should know. I've tried it. Look where it got me.

But for now, with results still unavailable, the evolving situation demands a moving wisdom point. Even if we triangulate these vicious holes with vim and glee, our partially obstructed overtone serpent probably cannot enforce due diligence with respect to the striped klondike murder cone that it all but demands. As for me, there's only one demand that I refuse to deny at the cost of my remaining hair, and that is, quite frankly, something that you'd do well to resist the urge to debunk. Without that, our pipes are clean, even while unwipable. If anyone reading this could stop by my showroom in the coming days, the (for whatever reason) popular idea that we can't work something out will take a beating in the gutter press. And for now, that's all we need. See you Sunday.

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How Often Do You See The Back Of Your Own Head?

The back of the head.

You often see the back of the head. Here, now I want to show you the front, or at least my version of it.  You could find it useful to remove your glasses. Here, let me get  you a glass of water. Are you feeling better? I wish I could tell why you seem to be altered in some way. It's like your very thin arms have grown a new head. It's devilish. Why have I kept you from meeting my former friend? Is it because you're a mighty opponent? I know that one too. It's kind of like a felled bristule when you've had one. Have you? It's okay if you haven't. My wife thinks I'm in town for the day.

There was a moment right before you called me, just a few seconds really. My tie (yes, I do wear a tie indoors) was caught in a spring-loaded foreign cleaning device. Your voice had a scratchy quality. I felt a little brazen, I must admit. If I told you where I placed my favorite vest in the overnight squat-bock, you've pretended to forget. Until now that is. Now you come at me with a story. One for the books! 

I've told you that I'm blind now, haven't I? No? Well why didn't you ask? It would've taken all of a second or two. Why do I get the feeling we're operating on different wavelengths? Your rhythm of chewing is a real buzzkill. I'll get over it. I always do. It's in my nature. I'm a national treasure. We're all set to flee. We won't bring anything. It's just not right. There's a weight limit for sure. A bell will close soon. My own delight is overly warm.   

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Sonic Scrumptiousness: The Ballad of Nosemeat

Experimental Prose Wherein Some Sentences Lack One Or More Elements Deemed Essential For Proper And Correct Sentence Construction.

Sidled one pure time upon this land. A choice to laugh with a ball. The sterner stuff we are not made from. Stakes torn free. The Scottish landowner who directs my club is now a grown-up grumpy Grandpa. As told to. By wired light. Shingles.

A tan from the brown under him so far, is a very old-timey crew. We've been here. The appointment is voided. And so, to mar Vilander as onyx miffs. Your truth. Where is a thing?

Before now, I said. We do not stop continuing. A pressure. Seeping. Overly bold signage corrupts a native youth. The land in my breast de-foots the tray of edibles.

As through your Jack-ruffled skirt, him dined as one side grew sterner. And our plot doubles as a trim suicide barnicle. Tram-Solly. You win. Shit.

Trail is her stomach. A brim as such. To a Jewish Lord in vines. I will plead for your coat. Whose stomach is braver?

Start it anywhere, since you can always cut off the local red thing. The semi-precious is graded for fate and straw. By our locavore's own testimony, a slick oze-tasting item is free for tough swinging pests. A tribute to oxygen.

'A chair' he thought. My own pilfered sitting place is obvious in the background. The scene is to be adjusted as to tint. A time-wise pasture. Jerry-my-dough, you kiss with a very real grappling. Poor is near. New Simon Donald's practice. Does not hurt.

Was told. The knock is prior to our beastly occurence. A brick is grace with Tollins. He marks me. With Joe. A very pressing cave. This is a tip: always supervise a team with inner wheat-form. You won't thunder. Might be even tighter.

Jim is sad. Part of a reason for this time period is not yet still clear. Our wise, clean sealed apple is Lord to People. Adjust. Delay. Announce. Fry.

Who will mark a different holder? Chippers? It is your lens that we appreciate. How goes it in Owner's World? Would you have golf as breakfast? A germ? Diesel fumes?

Hold these nightly missings and we train the one-be-goff. Lonely Powder be God!

As the two over this tree are balanced. A trim was woke. Bre-Kone-Ed. And nuclear particles seal the fake. Bringing livers to market. Real bold! Choke. (Sigh?) 

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______A Tidy Tale to Extend___ ___Your Feeling of Comfort.___

The most bewitching series of Soundcraft berricles are placed before a sullen gent, still conveniently oval in his bearing, with a delicious breath-enabling insouciance, which can not possibly rival the Dutch hitting-team's nitrogen palm print in all but size of concept.


Through the window of a classic piece of San Movidéo rolling stock, I espy my favorite Kennedy T-shirt to date. Just a glance is all it takes and the flavors of my winning purse envelope a transitional post-Weinsteinian nullity and barely break my glance as in a three-dimensional wasted punctual tiding. Of furious, entitled bearing we shall not be accused, at least not without cause-to-alarm and a benefit-to-doom ratio not exceeding one point seven.


What if a ransom is pried from the cold, dead fingers of a corrugated fence salesperson and our delightfully overdrawn bench project was seen as a thing-in-itself while a resting heart rate entered a last uncanny valley with coats asunder? Then you'd thrill to the sound of one grand applause signal gone viral but not before we've drawn the attention of all directly functional steaming points of yuck.

The Wheat Foundation Gala, even when postponed, creates a non-ordinary payoff in the fictional world of Sandy Times characters whose bold decisive malevolence is something not to be taken lightly as to pen in mouth. The following month we will aim to stride forward openly declaring a shady purpose for all so see, even as a dissociated Proctor's evening wick enables a seething pine drip to give license with a thwack, not a thud. 

The Break of How, it can now be told, is just so much aprected nedule to flip my sanity bourse and hone a perfectly sacrosanct murder in the duty bound lustrous oxides currently in favor as hypester broken wire gimlets ram it home for good.


Anyone, anyone at all in fact, who will kneel in my corner and corrupt my fairer course, is hereby absolved of all duties to encrust the patriot-of-record in a dual citizenship award fright wig, as paltry as that sounds in light of the now solid after-action report which graces my desk at the Moon Bank Derby.


We can't tell you about these staircases without a pledge, in hide-bound dollar denominated pastry mints, to signal a wizened grief strategy even while a cup (in tandem with a rifled drawer) is presented with all due sentience, to my personal border guard, Eftensio Talon, father of none.


You've got a story. What is it? 

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