A Preliminary Verdict on the Wellness of 'Things'.

High Peckrelferd payments, considered in isolation, don't constitute, in and of themselves, any sort of problem when seen in the context of an object-oriented facial repulsion plague as an announcement is sure to be made in a timely, if incomplete manner. The winning ploy accrues to a native-born mini-fur magnate's Princeton graduate daughter and her fetid claque of social-influencer busybodies. When the boyfriend made like a gunrunning closet dyke at pains to adjust nightly feedings to a once per annum atrocity prank, then we knew we'd had just about enough. After I buried his Father in a hole the diameter of an analgesic toothpick and scraped his dyslexic adoptive Mother off the dining room floor, my nose ran like a two-bit carnal opera fanatic and my pet hound Trophie took to the place like rice on a fly. All the while I was keeping company with the likes of Dirty Joe and Icepick Lou, the ghostwriters of my upcoming memoir, to be published by Random House and scheduled for an early Fall 2021 release.

When I came to in a laundromat the size of a '50s bowling emporium, it was plain that the only viable alternative was to re-scale my wafer intake regime and lead a 'horse of a different color' to a vat of liquid by any other name. I was down to my last pair of socks and it looked like my appearance at the Stonefield High School fifty year reunion would be in some doubt. I knew if I booted up the Parker Towel Jet and made a good faith effort to seem less harmful than your average bond ghoul, then our one-size-fits-all approach stood an increasingly slight chance of doing the trick. 

What made me decide to come clean was my selection as Pound Caffernet of the Year. No one will be held to account. To rip an ulterior fabric with the wrong end of a brick is our exit strategy of choice when hypoxied spandrels are in the mix. If my alienated cousin could see me now she'd have a fit. There's a medical name for what she has. The last time I tried to pronounce it, tooth decay was the inevitable result. A pony named Roger is the last organic being to justifiably win the trust of this very sad generation. Beyond that it's all dots and squibs, peners and ronads. You know the drill. Give it a break. My name squeaks Jesus. Now we can jocky for a position in digital marketing. The day is almost here. The pride you feel is practically infectious. Now we can relax. All is well. No it isn't.  

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A Timely Summary of the Current Situation.

As I've mentioned more than once, the situation in which we find ourselves, while not unprecedented, is somewhat unusual especially in a year, like this one, when the effort required to maintain a grip on likely outcomes is a grotesque undertaking. When my crew chief was confronted on the second of February at about 3:16 AM at the Shaker Heights Billiard Hall by a 'gentleman' sporting a classic Van Dyke and a dyed lime green widow's peak, he was at a loss as to the proper way to respond to what can only be regarded as a vile incitement to civic unrest in our time. He walked calmly to his wife's automobile, since his own car was in the shop for a transmission repair. When I was notified by Detective Osmer Dunphy later that morning, it was all I could do to not laugh till I cried, so ridiculous was what came out of the Detective's mouth. Since it was a telephone conversation, the objects emitted by his mouth became known to me only later via a third party review process that most would regard as a waste of time at best.

It was with a barely concealed composure that I bristled at the suggestion that either I or my people were responsible for the atrocious summaries of a series of false reports circulated widely in the gutter press. If anyone had notified me, whether by email or text message, that a seemingly trivial event during prime viewing hours would lead to a catastrophic cascade of unenviable emotions, I would have exercised all due diligence and harbored a wrongly convicted felon all of whose hair had turned white with stress. 


Due to a high fat diet and a restriction placed on allowable sound profiles, I believe it's only in the best interests of society-at-large to forgo a barely digestible hourly supplement in the slack hour just before dawn, at least as fishing season winds down. What is a person to do who's had a reputation to defend and a sustaining partnership to avoid, if a locally sourced sourdough bread scandal rears it ugly head and the best and brightest are typically blamed for a plan gone up in smoke? 

 In fact, if you yourself do still smoke, we have a plan for you. It involves a negative reinforcement  regime, and we're quite sure you won't like what we've found out about your early years. Everything is still safe but not for long. As much as we will try to stand athwart the tides of history and shout 'Stop!', the ultimate dénoument does not appear to be in doubt. The comb you credit with saving your remaining hair is evidence in a sensational wireless fraud case in which not less than forty five of your inelegant neighbors are implicated. There's a name that sounds like the one you wish you had. It's only by the grace of God that you haven't been approached yet. What's keeping you awake at night?, is what we want to know. Try to have it on my desk by tomorrow morning. I'll do what I can. I can't do anything. Why? Because I'm paralyzed from the eyelids down, as if you didn't know. Don't play stupid, you moron! 

Look, I've got to go. My wife is waiting in a bar for a Yugoslavian diplomat to lose his cookies. Then she'll make her move. It's the only thing that will save her. That and her oceanography degree. And her monogrammed handkerchief collection. And her sense of 'the unusual'.  And the colorful way she talks about the Living God. That gets 'em every time. If only I'd known her before I went to prison. That would have been sweet! 

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This Might Seem Like a 'Cry for Help' Of Sorts, But Please, Don't Kid Yourself, Okay?

The assemblage point for the next meeting of our Slender Persons' Colloquy seems like a risky location in light of recent talking points bandied about before being thrown within a manifold of terrified box-lovers. It was a run-down—even rickety—soda fountain operated at a loss by one of the more perverse chapters of the Sisters of Mercy it's been my duty to investigate, prosecute and destroy. Why would a person at the height of his career, like my cousin Dumont Pletzner, hold himself to a higher standard than one in seven apparently craven goat herders that are observed on hillsides the Nation over, beguiling indigent pipecleaner salespersons with promises of sugary stapler-shaped, nutrition-free, day-old baked goods?

As I told the Lieutenant just prior to sodomizing him, if one in four convicted felons could be forced at gunpoint to obfuscate their tendency to re-offend, then we might just have something there! Endowed as the least among us seems to be with convex toroidal energy matrices, it could possibly constitute a turning point of sorts, as some have averred in sworn statements issued in conjunction with the annual Janitorial Mating Spree. If there's one more peep out of the domesticated nincompoop who lords it over modestly talented vocalists in the Rahway, New Jersey Trail Partners Brigade, then I'll refuse to cede my spot in a burgeoning scene of hairsplitting abominations in this version of existence.

My own morning ritual consists (in part) in a toast throwing melée with my adopted son Ike Jr. He's a kid known throughout the carpet cleaning community for his preternaturally viscous nocturnal emissions and his advanced expertise in lead-lined solinoid repair. Just a 'chip off the old block' I guess! Why has this become common knowledge in just the last three weeks or so? Is it because of the rumors making the rounds in the court of public opinion? If I were to find that a particular type of substance is germane to the peculiar case of President George Trump, would this aid me in finally gaining access to files in the Jeanette Parker investigation? From now on we will hold ourselves to a standard of boldness not long seen in the well deserved infamy to which we've become (sadly) accustomed. This has got to stop. Please help me find my daughter. She's allergic to string. Thanks. 

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Sonic Harbolig.

A Set of Basic Facts Which Imbibe Reticulated Blasphemy.

Each one of the forty-seven Pavillia which scattered, seemingly at random, around the grounds, was dedicated to a color, an ethnic cuisine, an alphabet letter, a prime integer and a de-listed Patron Saint. The rationale for the way people cheer, even with no enthusiasm, would strike a man of my age as paltry at best. With the Luden Family finally at rest in the Vestibule of Honor, my hair regained its unkempt, yet thrilling aspect. Someone will stun various police officers with their bold assertions, I'm afraid. But that's not all I'm afraid of. What do you call those things again? A trial-sized piece of equipment?

While I ducked out for a few moments to grab some snacks for the youngest of our kids, my family struggled to get the attention of a trio of regular Joes as they described their ultimately failed attempts to defeat a modestly tacky tardento. I hadn't been back to the office in weeks, but I knew that my dark-haired colleague was threatening to expose his secretary to a rare—if irresistible and expensive—eau de toilette to win her everlasting ardor. This is not how the game is played, and I told him as much, three times in fact. After I arranged for his younger brother's canoe instructor to be fake-kidnapped in Southern Mexico, I felt the time was finally right to ask my wife if she'd be interested in participating in the 'swinger's lifestyle' which was all the rage back then. I snuck into the carport in the wee hours one afternoon and noticed a moth the size of a baseball lurking just to the right of the lawnmower. I knew what I had to do, but, as ever, I felt I had no choice but to refuse to do it. My entire life was on the line. You would too if it weren't for the way you smell.

Since I've dedicated my life to exposing the coming generations to the advantages of mastering astounding card tricks, the skin on my fingers was no longer able to grip playing cards. If anyone notices Dick and Judy Parnell escaping the backyard pen, they should say something. They should probably say whatever it is in a kind of loud voice or they might not be heard above the din. My in-laws are in town and they're kind of 'ethnic', that is to say, loud and liable to upset persons of a sort that I once was. Some still are. You know the type I mean, right? Boring. Resentful. Apoplectic. In denial. Atrociously coiffed. Unbendably reactionary. Apparently bald. Toothless and vain. Hyperbolic and prim. Unsecured and naive. Always 'in the game' but NEVER 'in the know'. You've met these people. Or at least some folks who can't help themselves from pretending to resemble them. You have my deepest respect.  You'll need it. In spades. Please stop clearing your throat or you'll be asked to leave. This is no joke. Just kidding. 

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Yet Another Reason to Remain Calm.

A patient has informed me that he will withdraw from our agreement. Even so, as I preserve an irreplaceable scrap of paper from his forebear's estate, there's a subtle tickling sensation curling about my tongue and the tissue specimen has sprouted a rare and invaluable fungal treat in a now discarded refrigerator that I keep on the property, mostly just to scare away the kids at this time of year. Formerly, if I had driven straight through to Columbus, Ohio, just to get my 'head in the game', I'd have submitted a motion to the Touchstone Board detailing my involvement in the assassination of the Notorious B.I.G. This was to be my veritable 'Jupiter moment', but during the final installment of our show I suffered a near fatal brain aneurysm while I escorted a Lesbian psychologist on a tour of Malta and greeted the day as if it had just begun.

As my wife's condition worsened, I approached Coach Donohue, wondering if this time would be like all the others. He would feign a deep-seated fear of foreign made metallic objects and I would let on that I knew better. The whole situation would end in a draw. But the sad fact was (and is), I couldn't draw my way out of a wet paper bag. One time when I was still in training a friend misplaced a desk lamp in a warehouse that I was no longer renting for my creepy art projects. We were on the cusp of a magnificent trade agreement but no one could seem to figure out just how our codicils would be abrogated. For that, most folks would call in a professional. But that's now how the game was played in that era, at least not in Southeastern quadrant of the Northern Midwest. There's one thing I was sure of, though, and that's that everything was 'up for grabs'  in a way which leaves most folks with an uncomfortable taste in the back of their throats.

If ever there was a need for lozenges, this was it. Why was I sweating so much when all I had to do was ask a girl if she wanted to get married? Even though I'd only seen her picture in a magazine I picked up at the dentist's office, I felt sure my time had come. Turns out it had gone. Where, you ask? Right up my alley, that's where! 

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Being the Account of an Event Which Should Put Most Persons at Ease.

The sky blue suede Norlorky was placed with distant relatives in a mis-identified time zone while the staff and I struggled to free up the space required without upsetting Monday's planned false flag psychological operation ('psy-op'). That Summer I had worn my special tweed bindings and my niece Dwelebra donned her favourite (now forbidden) vole-fur lined surgical mask for what seemed like hours (in reality days made of seconds) as we waited for an appearance on the raised screen, iced coffee in hand, of the Final Key. There was a general bonhomie and a remarkable lack of piffle, which helped ingratiate the Team with an ignoble lumber executive accused of first degree espanticide by the Government of Puerto Vallarta, Virginia.

It seemed only minutes before the cold, hard truth of ontological granularity produced in us the now quite common sensation of mild abdominal upset. With visions of future paydays on the Moon now just so many ablated dust-ponies, it fell to me to break the news of the Team's abandonment, even while seated on specially constructed ergonomic prick cushions. It took all I had but I got through it without bursting and felt myself to be the better man for it. The salient point however is that I WASN'T for it. In fact I was actively fighting against it, just as I had every day for the previous thirty-three and seven ninths months. Look, I hope that one day when someone reads these off-the-cuff jottings, it's clear that I've sought to clear my name in all but 'name' only, from one end of this so-called 'country' to the other and had what can only be described as a rough go of it even as I reaped a windfall formerly unheard of in sententious betrayals of this kind.

In the event of my premature suffocation at the hands of a shadowy cabal of midnight Child Prosecutors, my only wish, in these troubled times, is to feed a bank of Formica Felony Desks into the furious flames which even now nip at the heels of the majority of superlatively mediocre roof closet maintenance contractors, their staff and support crew et al, who just show up, day in and day out, approach a hand that never bites, escort a coterie of pre-teen knitting assistants into Court, and just DO THE THING, okay? Could I be any clearer or is this just one more way for me to eat my own brain without even trying, so to speak? 

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