You Have My Word.

 

Their names aren't likely ones you've heard much about in recent months, weeks or years. Even their appearances on some obscure shows are guaranteed to raise the proverbial snoozefest in all but name only. But their handiwork can't be avoided, no matter which direction you fancy yourself to be pointing, position-wise, if that. You might find it somewhat remarkable to learn that I had a habit a number of years ago to take one and then another of them underneath a wheelbarrow for an indefinite period in an attempt to find out what they're 'really' made of, constitution-wise. And I can tell you this, not one of them impressed me as the type of person that one would want to engage in any kind of complicated set-up, even if narrow strictures could be eventuated for a purpose just such as this. Because you know what? Even the fastest person will once in a while find it advantageous to take a moment before thinking of what they might want to think, say or do, and just go over it, again and again and again, in their very head if needs be, and try to iron something out, even if for the very last time. You have my word.

Now when I met my last one, this would be about a year prior to my kidney surgery, he approached me at right angles to the way I habitually faced. He said he was curious to know my opinion of his taste in applications. I replied that I would have to take him at his word, or else I wouldn't stand a chance if he decided to play rough. This was the moment when he said something that would change to course of my life in a way that no one would have ever guessed. In fact, even if someone offered me good money at this very moment, I don't think I would hazard a guess unless it seemed apparent that my time had finally come. Then there would be no choice. Grinding my teeth in anticipation would prove a 'bitter pill', and not one that I or my extended family would have any trouble swallowing, without help from our local Committee. You know how it works. Do you?

By the time I arrived at the San Rafael First Aid Station after midnight on August 13, 2007, I was convinced that our Family's trip-mount was a goner. I was reassured by Chief Hazelton that I was being recorded on a nightly basis and no harm would come to anyone if our statements added up. 'Added up to what?', I asked, even as I was quite sure that I knew exactly where he was going with this line of utter bullshit. He played it cool as he underwent a procedure at the office of a guy I know in town. I made sure his vehicle was disabled and, just to be sure, appended my signature to a petition likely to raise more than a few hackles once word got out. By that time I would be high and dry, riding out the whole thing from my four-path skids in South Rahway, New Jersey. No one would ever get to find out what I really knew, if anything. And I would get to sweep up all the too-hot-to-handle clippings for my own fat self. And that, ladies and gents, is where I will no longer draw any kind of line, come heck or a surfeit of rather ordinary liquid. Don't snatch.

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Please Allow Me to Share Some Teachable Moments.

 

There's a basin, a disconnected basin, in fact, that's in my garage next to the lawn mower. My wife has asked if I think it could be used for a particular purpose which she is loathe to discuss as long as I maintain a residence on the property. I have steadily repeated a noncommittal response and gone about my business as if nothing is wrong. Inside however, I can't help but feel a deep sense of betrayal and anomie. Once I can get my things together into a static pile and assess them for sentimental value and innate uselessness, I plan on seeking out a conversational partner, more than one in fact, with whom I can put my head together as a form of tribute to people whose fondness for results does not preclude an aversion to a mechanical way of speaking. The ladies in my book club have advised me to run for office somewhere in rural America since I have a good feeling for soil of all kinds.

In my job as a Supervisor at the Fitch College Dormitory, I am in charge of informing students and their hostile parents of what is to be expected of them in case of any kind of emergency, temporary or otherwise. On one occasion that sticks directly in my mind, I remember a group of them staring into the middle distance even as they required oxygen to upgrade their systems. It wasn't much to ask for but I did it anyway. And with gusto, I might add. The following year I saw them sneaking around a parking lot in Lewiston, Maine (this is about 300 miles Southeast of Fitch). They each held a postcard-sized piece of plastic made to look as if it was genuine wood.  The ringleader of the group appeared to be a dark-haired  woman named Sheila Ramiston. I realized I used to babysit for her retarded son when I was just a pip of a lad. We went out for coffee later that night and I got right to the point and laid my cards directly on the formica table. This is the same table upon which our coffee sat. Just to be clear, I had also ordered a doughnut.

Once Sheila saw the cards that I was holding, she folded like the cheap camera I always knew her to be deep down inside, where the sun don't shine, to put it quite bluntly. I took it upon myself to ask her point blank if anyone in her local neighborhood had ever expressed a profound disregard for folks caught up in situations for which their preparation was minimal at best. She hemmed and hawed and then proceeded to give me the phone number of a local person. I asked if she thought that would do any good. She started to cry. I lightly tapped the top of her head to try to bring her back into some semblance of contact with reality as we know it. It was all in vain. Also, it's important that anyone reading this knows that she herself is a very vain woman, always checking her chalky makeup etc. The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back near the home of a convicted arsonist. It turned out he was Sheila's nephew, Wilburt Klertner. Klertner was a 'known quantity' in the neighborhood but I knew that giving up was not an option, no matter what. So, I gave up. Can anyone actually blame me? If so, just look me straight in the eye sometime. Then we'll know for sure.

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Excuse Me, But This Is Something Which Just Needs to Be Said!

 

The word, the phrase, the sentence: as each is encountered, an alternate imprint is provided at minimal effort, all malice forgiven. As a refugee sleeps, there is a tangent which obviates a latent, if switchable, tonally oblique appraisal. Of this only, some of our suppliers can afford to be shaded as a lens is inserted. The darkened compartment will be vouchsafed as we turn you toward a fenced lancet in all good stead. Your olway comes second. A drink secures the entrance of a trusted advisee. Now our pain-free license is set to grip the future allotment of non-secure factlets and train the orders upon a locked treeless lenten bromad. If we engage a paltry stuntwoman in our fracas, then woe unto any forensic psychiatrist who darkens our fold without so much as a keen, wizened grulch. Please take us at our worshipful dugout puntie. They won't know that you are neither here nor present at a location which is thought to be somewhat similar. It serves you right. My name is Roger Bingaman. You are charged with servicing foreign military personnel. Get over it.

There is a type of colored sand that cannot but add zest to our already grainy, odorless set-up. With the tidal portion of a rimmler's ocean hat, any feasible acknowledgement that isn't already received can no longer be accepted without your script being delayed by an additional three weeks. Some of our current sisters are expected to tell a select group of enraged passersby that when we load the final tranch of mechanical desks into our oldest vesicle, they will no longer be seen during the holiday portion of our criminal enterprise particle. For this, a payment is a grievous insult to tender hearted mercenary home builders. There's a trip in this for anyone not already ensconced in a vituperative songbird's digestive canal. We WILL go there with all good homes. Our plea is to your ontological spear. Chase you with of and in. Each spot sells itself on books alone. Tricks go for the wiggum. Brownish lamp. Frosty penis.

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Data Points Re: Life in the Penciltania League.

 

Those of us in the Penciltania League are having trouble keeping pace with a retired Officer who leads us into and through the confines of a wholly owned Cave. At the direction of his Superiors, he dunks each of our protective bonnets into an invandillic copper bucket which is wheeled to and fro with its own meshlike tracking helper. Into the bucket, before the dunking, and then way out the other side, he places molded pieces which evoke imprecise reckonings on our parts. He is told through a personal device that our actions are observed, noted and dismissed. I keep my own station, but at breakfast panels I hold a paper which allows for one free visit with an engaging conversationalist. I treasure this opportunity and prepare myself with an eye for the telling detail. I've not yet mentioned about the trick which I keep locked away. Away from the others, that is. Under my own purview, access is enforced, when not actively accelerated.

The bearable afternoons come and go like anything else which renders pretexts obsolete, but not in the sense that is usually indicated in these missives. The aprons that we've been given play to our very gravest weaknesses. A likable person is often seen as expendable when emotional trauma becomes etched in a stone-like halfer. Even a female is activated when training comes to a halt. Her very hair is a gift to an unencumbered witness. We will show him our process. After that he is expected to reign supreme over all deficient cross-purposed challengers. This is a 'game changer'. We can only thrill to the yoke if every satisfied mentioner is sacrificed to the peculiarities of correct banner disposal. They tried like the dickens. Now they're all dead. All's the pity, but the Tribe's only son lives on. Just not like she insisted they would.

In a matter of seconds I am to restore a glittery object to its place of scorn in a Gallery near to our native River. I am urged to take every precaution. Still, this will not allow me to bolt mechanically, without fluidic thought providing a backdrop of sorts. This is where we return before anything else is formed. The strictures are real. Not one of our hosts is able to pronounce a simple word. The work is cut out for any Disciple who waits. But, now that they have started to breed their own versions, there is a fear that the Spirit of Industry has seen its demise come to life in an escalating pattern of secular infighting. Why do we know that this is a ticket to a sudden encirclement? We don't pretend to. It's just the base that we are given to play with. At their own wits we will keep them safe, warm, dry and crinkly. For this you will receive a chop. But not in the kisser. Please move.

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Sonic Unduvulox

 

Michael Roper 5 · Unduvulox

The Future Memory of Polarized Bastions.

 

Over time, the roots of our insolence were absorbed; branch, feeder and may-bed, to the limiteurs whose set-points keep all to a willing advance. Of a book, we are designed to run in a blanked plantern, a screened vowel to escape a daily powered, if somewhat red, whoring fiber. But with the one inside the name we keep positioned, every assurance being given, one pilfered joinder at an incline: the roll you pierce is the only stamp to grim your picture in our salted, unique overflow. We will bait your carmelized nook with fancy lateral skid-parks. This will show any of our inspectors if your seriousness can be trusted. Our good night is never above your scope for passive altercations. A stumble can be assumed. The one voice you won't hear is that of our assumed decliner. This will allow your sheild to be heated through a basic glow. That's what gives it a vanishing module. And keeps us famished. What now?

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When the barest exhalation is countered by a noonday's opulent pull, will this give our sourest mirage a disk upon which to sally? You won't find us any sorrier that the intent was freed from our instrumental usage bargain. If anyone loves your locus of ambits, it's 

the one whose marvelous crappage is willed into the prestigious pavilions of our Nation's Security Retards. Where our donors ever received their well-sourced tinkling idols, is not a question to usurp our gambits into a rapturous icy fog. But if ever we decide to re-do our marked traditional bridges, then, if even the Bishop's daughter displays a proximity to endemic salt, we will proceed to give her a branch upon which to mark the sanitor's decay, each capricious node in a rhyme of oxidized whist. It pleases us that you give planets the grift of a wife gone boldly slotted. They will tree her if we die. I will release my only medallion in this affair. The date will be July 29, 2031. No one will ask if you've given up. Our batch of keepsakes is prepared for selection. All that remains is for you to tidy up and be still. It won't hurt. Promise.

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An Ultra-Serious Proposal.

 

Would you like to meet a person I'm thinking of? In real life, I mean, not the other way. You get the picture. Okay, sure. So, it's known that she teaches Professional Studies at an alternative high school in the Adirondacks. Her favorite singer is Jennifer Lopez Mantilla. It turns out that she's lived in a house for about a year. Before that she stuck to herself and made do with half a laundry room in a clinic some distance from here. By the way, just so you know, I still haven't met her yet. I just go by reports I get from contacts I've cultivated since I was mustered out in the late '90s. It's still good for a laugh once in a while.

I'm hoping that you could write me a letter. I don't mean the kind you put in a mail box. I mean the other kind. You'll get used to it soon. Some people have all the luck. The others like to hide their feelings behind an insincere way of holding their heads when they would otherwise be diligently involved in trying to make existence more bearable for a chosen few. Chosen by who, though? You could begin by talking straight through to the following day. We'll knock off at three. That should give you time to make amends to my girlfriend. She's starting to get upset by the way you look at her while I'm trying to think of something innocuous to say to help the time pass more efficiently. They pay me to do that, you know? No? Well, please get used to it, because nothing is apt to change now that we've gotten started in earnest. Thank you. 

Anyway, so you asked if I was due to sign a paper that could get you a 'full-up', right? Well, here's the thing: while I was stuck with some of the people who I thought could help you, the other ones, the ones who left early I mean, told me that my jacket had already been taken by that guy you warned me about. You said he was a 'tough customer'. You were right. My bad. But, you know what? I blame you anyway. And you know what else? So do most of the folks I talk to on a daily basis. They like to joke about your hair. I tell them, 'Don't go there, girlfriend'. They look at me like I've popped a gizzard and then stand back while I demonstrate one of my techniques.

Generally after that I don't hear shit from them for the rest of the afternoon. By which time I've resettled my family in one of the not-so-temporary camps. It's run by the Department of Arts and Leisure. They've got a guy there who sometimes engages in an activity . You should see it. However, a lot of stuff will go easier if you don't. See it, I mean. Do you find that I'm swaying you at all? Or is this whole enchilada just a waste of hot breath? Don't get me wrong. I do find you tremendously sexually captivating. It's just that I'm due for renewal soon, so I can't afford any 'wrong moves'. To be honest, I'd still be kind of concerned if I met you in a hallway half way around the world during a long drive. That's why I'm still casting about for a motive for an upcoming spree. You would too. Not that you asked.

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