🚀 go-pugleaf

Auntie Et! Auntie Et! I don't think we're in HELL any longer: tornado-
gooders forming reception lines to greet incumbents as well as
newcomers, all presenting their tokens (no redeemable value) for billets
and programs ("One, Please") indicating what the wax mound -- or is it
a lump? -- to their immediate left facing the Exit sign is a likeness of
("Damn Modern Art" mutters one misanthropic magnate who spells "nice"
with a cents sign) before moving to their private hansom cabs for radio-
controlled debris derby maneuvering.  Pardon-for-course, aunt-by-
marriage ("Mother, I've dolt-married!" "O, Hoppie dear, how could
you?"), might I ins(in)ulate myself into your daily routine tune-
whistling so you may speak to me and to me alone of sleaze and graft in
the name of Action! Adventure! Romance! Go-Go Dancers! Tax Hiking!
Sem(et)aphores! and their synonyms (broadly defined) across a spectrum
of the really tough decisions that HAVE to be MADE so the paychecks are
cut and the bottom line gapes a tad longer unsated: Rooftop astronomers,
remember who piled the bricks in the first place.  Yr social scientist
yearnings, m'dear, are admirable, if passe ("fun", you'll remember, was
in vogue even though "in vogue" was not in 1967 when Daniel burned
burlap-scented paper scrolls in the name of attendancing square 1 with
the unPerverted) and doomed to failure from a priori plot-twist-the-
night-away methadone methods: removal of all utensils means but that
you'll be socially ostriched while eating out of shrink-wrapped
containers and with yr own shindigits: Consider: a trap-poise dating a
decade whereby all you see, all you touch, all you think, would one day
be M-mediated, a cheating bunker that power-supplies for Castle H760 so
even the most spectacular spelunking splashes were stone-set and
transcribed for the viewing audience for the cost of a SASE -- then
login, full-fathoming lying fire-tendrills ringing, nay, pulsating as
per yr ([)heart(]) around yr ears ("'Ello? Are you there?")
vesperiodically, to submit yr mild (ho!) affect(at)ions to the dj mired
in all-night satellite-fed control room monitors while "providing you
the list(en)er with only the very bestest interests (no concept too
moribund to latch) in noise noise noise" -- culled from the KILR FM
matchbook, available in sets of 10, 50, and 99 at most convenience
stares-yr-direction (Despondent Response Executive On Bitter Pill
Thrives) -- who, rusting towards leavened dormancy, Smiles because
secretly the dj knows she's on the partake but could never turn her in
(not in one thousand (1000) years (no redeemable value?)) as inter alibi
it's not part-and-parcell-division of the planned recourses.  So
adventilate to music my heart's content (though I'd recommendicant you
should keep yr kilter on -- you might catch cold -- as entrancing and
enthanking as the alternativity-scene would be) and venture (out into)
halls-or-(sweet)nothings whispered plexiglass-tinged into tes belles
oreilles, distilted (*GAME OVER*) in the event that cheating (yrs, yrs
... yrs) should have run out of songs to play and should be taking late-
night requests door-to-dormir.

>                               (ask him why he is the [words fail writer
>at this point] he is and Just Hear The Disapproving Silence)

Hmmm.... let's see: the tried and true blue flag raised in sublimation
tendencies over a gravesite mistakenly labelled "mine entrance"? the
Bobby Fischer International Good Will Embassador and Diplomat? the tasty
morsel to be devoured as an after-dinner mint afterthought? the umbrella
leaning against the closet door a mile as the blinded crow flies away
during the monsoon season? the plainsong groove-stuck in yr head? the
Lab where you spend just enough time to get to know all the janitors'
personal habits but not enough time to get any work done? the hackles
that rise and stand -- and what else is it that hackles do? -- on the
back of yr neck -- and where else are hackles? -- when you think,
"maybe, just maybe, this is the Spy my mother spoke of in hushed tones
that October night when I was just a girl and the threat of bogeys was
far more frightening and immediate than the location of the manufactor
of the bottle that I drank from being bowled over by threats of fear and
coercion of siblings but never losing that faith that the wolves would
come and that the wolves would try to take me" (... and you were right)?

REDACTOR REDUX! Coming soon: a boldfaced lie to make up for the fear
that I'm beginning to lapse too close -- but then you don't really want
to hear any of this, do you?

                              M