If Anyone Thinks This Post Isn't 'Serious', They've Got Another Thing Coming.

There's a sea-green pelcid which serves as an emergency coverlet for a graying strand, but only if my kids are over for the weekend and I've got papers to take next door to confirm the latest figures. The table from which I look out over a mysonite rock garden still at times exhibits a tawdry gleam which hovers over my new lector's traditional peachtree organelle. If I get in the mood, I can encapsulate a frightening story if anyone's in the room. Even if they're not, though, I have thousands of numbers displayed on a board which at times keeps me stranded on a far side where I'm likely to like strange foodlets even less. The more I think about it, the more I've come to feel obligated to fulfill a purpose for which I was never prepared, other than a two week rhythmically offensive worship parallel. I've started to maintain a warming attitude toward those who penetrate our bungalow as we watch movies about deserts.

When the couple who abuts our secondary carport accuses us of fomenting civil disturbances and tries to have us ejected and bound inside an asymetrical perimeter, I sometimes take recourse to a box of colored sand which helps my skin condition and also keeps a distance from some of the neighborhood cats. My wife has been seeing a specialist while I've been away and I'm concerned about some of her unusual experiences. It seems she remembers entering a foreigner's parlor but cannot recall the process of exiting. I ask if she's checked and re-checked her childhood operation. She replies that my imagination is playing tricks on someone I've never met. Have I mentioned that she feels entitled to a magnificent second wedding? No? Well, please consider yourself incredibly fortunate.


One of the brindles we've struggled with throughout a year of serial intrusions is turning a worrying shade of deep gray mousetard. If we allow it off of the primary shelf and grind one of our phone masks into an epistolary powder, it gives us an ease of motion which is not to be snickered at, despite what anyone may have whispered about at the town dump. They'll try anything if you let them, but they'll NEVER stop burying cast iron figurines in our traditional tapioca patch. This is when I get out my stencils and begin a campaign of factual distortions long into the night. The plain truth is that one of my oldest carbonet instructors is about to introduce our children to a lifestyle enhancement for which they have neither the maturity nor the guts to take full advantage of. A line will be drawn. Blunk will be spurned. And, at the end of the day, a trophy for blind rage will be lost in a struggle over mid-tempo finances. This is not a joke.

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A Friendship Is Tested.

There's a friend whose wife I've known since the years just before the War when we both worked at Merck & Co. in the Forensics Testing Division. She told me something very troubling about him the other day. She said that one time about a year ago, while they were having dinner on their patio he reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a Triple A size battery and put it on the table, just to the right of his dessert spoon. Nothing was ever said about it and she was, quite frankly, afraid to ask. In the days that followed she one time observed him walk between the den and the living room. Now, you might think this sounds kind of mundane, and for most people you'd be correct. But you've got to understand that this is very out of character for him.

He's known throughout the Valley for sometimes making comments which strike some folks as mildly inappropriate. One of his hairs showed up in my mailbox as if by magic. You might be wondering how I knew it was his hair. That's simple: the way it tasted. No one else's hair has ever tasted like that. When I asked him if he remembered the time I lost my monogrammed handkerchief during a hurricane in Bozeman, Montana, he just smiled in a typically passive-aggressive manner, said nothing and walked away. Before he got very far I put him in a headlock and made him promise to invite me over for drinks later in the month after my cancer surgery. He hemmed and hawed and finally blurted out that he'd never considered NOT inviting me. I knew he was lying so I emptied a cup of tap water near his car. That got his attention but I have to admit, I still wasn't getting through to him.

We decided that our only recourse was to engage a formal Mediation Process at a local Center. I was called out of town the night before to have a look inside a box that was found about thirty-five and a half miles Southeast of the Hoover Dam. My cousin, Joey Rawlins, called me from Ireland and wanted to know if I've been 'keeping my hand in'. 'Keeping my hand in what?', I asked him. 'You know', he said and then hung up. Now I knew I'd have to do something—and quick! I flew to Chicago the next day, mistakenly assaulted a Police Officer, had lunch with some friends from my days in Nam and accidentally cut my forehead on a taxicab's rear view mirror. I'd like to think that someone's learned something from this whole mess, but I have my doubts. It's possible that I may have to pull a body out of a canal later today. I'll keep you posted. Hello.

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Important Announcement:

Michael Roper 5 · A Thin Sheet

It's Now or Never!

By the time I'd set up in a little eaterie down the way—a few pencils, a box of stiffles and a brand new Lomax—even several of the ones I'd disappointed during an earlier occasion had made the quick trip in a shared wagon. They spared no effort to hide the fact that they were pretending. I'd never had it so good. But here I was on the precipice of lending my good name to an ancient struggle, one that I'm sure you would have heard of—if not for all the coverlets which offer minimal resistance. I'd offer a plea in place of my usual wan bequittals, bask in a service person's sullen enticements and offer a token of an old mood for the consideration of likely opponents. They jive as the table turns like a deliverable oxcart and now we're holding off before a decision to cling becomes irrevocable.

A green felt bonnet was left with a person near the door who's now retreated to a burglar's lair for a quick lunch. The time is nearing for us to choose one of our number to make a fantastic move. Most people have only read about this kind of thing. I helped an older woman to recover a found object from an absentee art exhibit. Some of the luminaries in attendance gave the impression that one or another of us failed to belong in an intimate sense. I broadcast the entire event live from a convertible in town. Even while the poorer ones looked askance at my collection, they had no choice but to attach themselves to a special container. Never have I felt so violated. But, you should know this: my voice held firm throughout the duration. It was no surprise to find my left hand creeping inside someone's shoe,.. yeah, it was the same old place—only bigger!

Now, as she's jotting down these notes (I've lost the use of my hands in the recent fire), I feel called upon to come up with a reason that it's taken this long to set things right. Could it have been my relationship with a trio of fallacious twins? That would explain only part of it, and not the least important part, if anyone cares. It's beyond ironic that her neck now looks so old. Most of us could count on the fingers of one hand the times we've wondered if our approach brought anyone into a circle of intrigue. That would make it even more delicious. They say that if you encourage relations between unqualified lifers, they'll see to it that the more you trade in your good looks the more you'll find ineluctable conspiracies unmoored in your very presence. It could keep you up at night. Alternatively, you could devise a clever work-around, and that might help you throw your voice to an obese dentist. It's now or never!

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Stark Details About a Recent All-Nighter.

She was slated to make an appearance at my friend Johnson's Staff House. Only one or two of the the appellations would be announced by name. The others would be noticed if they so much as touted some type of remedy. I gave each a tan quote sheet and we settled in for what became an all-nighter. The one who parked directly opposite a trending site revealed to everyone a lynchpin of an operation necessary for having an appreciation of irregular shapes. We'd need a ton of this since, if anyone doesn't already know, people are quite regularly killed for less than this. While I busied myself with lifting a caper of water to within a half-can of a full win, she found it in herself to bug one of the Marshalls whose presence we'd gone out of our way to not avoid.

This is where it gets tricky. My time in the undergrowth felt like only a second or two, but one day soon I'll be promised a term-limited pansy cake to share with likable support goners. They're almost here, right while I sit and copy these notes into a balancing index. A series of numbers comes to mind, but not before I'm scheduled to be fixed for transition to a new focus. The state where the body is awake while the mind enjoys deep, dreamless sleep is considered the most efficient vector for non-thrillseeking revanchists. I've brought my son to many of them. They never fail to impress him in their likeness to one of his favorite characters from a diagram he once saw stapled to the inside of an old box. It shouldn't have to be this way, but it is. Why do we need to fight about this? It's your specialty, that's why.

The older that some of us believe that we are, the more ticklish details are thrust right under our noses before the lights get saddled with two or more carpelized pressures. If Ike and Bonnie had heard of a newer version, we wouldn't be in this mess. It's a kind of molding where only picture-perfect pylons stand any chance of conferring hope for a term completion gambit. You'll see one dot followed by a broken line which leads into a darker strand of dickless shandies. It's now or never if the shapes remain unidentified. Whenever any animals become unlocked, we can send a pelky detector through a loading swamp. Then we can find each of our ranked buttons hiding a list of distressed modular hunks. My personal favorites lack any distinguishing flavors. We like the new treatment. It suits our raw predontural feeder stones. That way they break more easily if wind arrives from the Northwest unaided. Only a scawl was dreamed to ever be allowed inside this part. Little did we know...

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A Few Words on the Ever Elusive Seyontallee.

The Seyontallee, which is burnished, and the color of a gulfen flask, admits of no person's idle speculation. But when it comes to overage, we're all m-pits and Oxford rainwear. I keep my personal standards perpetually adjusted in case of explosions which go unexplained. The compact gray tube remains a favorite when our lids require a silly peckering. In yet another case of mistaken wordage, we find that a community under siege puts up one hell of a fight when their ethics go unquestioned into that good night. But over and above any person's feeling of inceptive extrusion, we like to promise that any hill to die on is one worth fighting against if a common beast lacks even the smallest tumor. By miles, you say? Don't.

If all goes 'whiff', and the truechord shuffle is recorded for the grandkids, then I'll consider my work all but complete. The way they look through the final cracks would take your breath in a novel direction. The common fault with our sense of being is what blocks a successful enactment of stealth in our partner's vacant former room. They love to wheel around without complaint, until one day a question needs asking and a certain someone is buttonholed on his way out of an intrusive door-cam. Think what you will, but if any of your stuff ends up in a garage down the street, then you will have richly earned the promotion for which you almost came undone on the inside. I'd bet my life on it.

But now, if we observe extra closely, the Seyontallee betrays the tiniest loam of moisture and each of our miniaturized bodies seems newly appropriate during an evening of traditional mist. I've bantered with the worst of them and still it comes-a-cropper. Now when I chainmail an embossed dishrag to one of the phlebotic Sultans of a, quite frankly, innocuous 'stan', I can groan in my soup but still not utter the secret word that will render us safe from incipient conflagration. I dread meeting the reigning Queen of Sherpas even though I admire the trust she wields throughout the dogmire. It will help us if we pester a League official on his very own letterhead. Only then will we get back in tune with the more obvious facts which leave us heckless but with superb prizes. Is that you, Chip?

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Synopsis of an Autobiographical Video Hopscotch.

First there's a part where I give a bit of personal information to someone I briefly encounter near a well known highway. Then it moves into a segment where I'm employed as an assistant to a painting contractor and we're working a job at a shoestore in the Lower Midwest. There's some kind of altercation—it's difficult to hear from where I'm stationed—but when I come to, my Uncle, who's had a hand in more than a few unsavory events, is beginning to tell me a long involved account of his childhood on the Southern Plateau. For some reason he seems somewhat prideful concerning his style of dress and his choice of cologne. I cut him short and tell him that I require immediate hospitalization. He avers that he thinks I'm 'joking' but I don't let that put me off my feed.

Next we're asked to follow a medium sized woman, known by only a single initial, as she putters around her one bedroom apartment on her day off. We notice that she seems more docile than is strictly necessary. At a few minutes after eleven (there's a clock in every frame, even while none of the pictures are framed), she pulls a scrap of paper from a side drawer, waves it in a mock threatening manor and then unfurls it and holds it adjacent to where she thinks our device is located. All that's visible on the paper are some quite provocative erasures. She 's been thoroughly hoodwinked since there is no device. We are there, though, at least six of us. She doesn't know that however. Looking for present, if unseeable, observers, is an action she'd never considered. I feel sorry for her, but not her brother, Dr Randy Stevens. He's kind of a shitty person. Ask anyone.

Now it's two years later and I find myself dating the woman in an on-again off-again sporadic basis. Her future husband will ask me to help have her confined for her own good. It turns out she's been seeing spots —not the kind where you'd put something, like a 'hiding spot'. I've spent long hours in the library to see if her condition is in any way 'serious' or just a laughing matter. I've come up empty but that doesn't mean I'm going to give up, in or over. Not by a long shot! In the last part some guys come out and do a bit. People pretend to be bored, but that's just because they're jealous. They'd never have the guts to try this kind of thing. Why? Because they all have allergies. And also they get 'cranky' if it goes on too long. Before the sun goes down I offer each of them a false cookie. They politely decline. Now I'm fucked.

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