🚀 go-pugleaf

HAG, in her anti-establishment household she has fortified in the
lion-slumbers-tonight-hush-my-<darling.>-king-of-the-jungle of
Burlington fails to garner the complete tangleroot and snagglehold
which has befallen the Braves' fair city.  Not merely Men, in
their sickening repulsiveness and unerring straight-arrow doctrines
of crippling economies (I hear ya, sister! (though the recent
addition of TEG to yr dwelling suggests you didn't read Dworkin's
_Intercourse_ carefully enough))

Intermission:	I have some friends before me gone
			(One more river to cross)
		By the grace of God I'll carry on
			(One more river to cross)

		There's a beam of light to guide me on
			(One more river to cross)
		In the black of night to the break of dawn
			(One more river to cross)

		Wide River of Jordan, Lord, One more river to cross

--Sons of the Pioneers

but kindly rust, white, and blue-haired gently-aged ladies can explain
why Glavine will get the Cy Young and Prime Time deserves the money
he makes: and even expanding: HAG also allows the all-pervasive
influence of TBS to lie waste, kissing syndication to WGN and the Cubs,
so the national appreciation fails to moss-gain.  Don't show bunt: the
whole of the city shows, within its dire loop, none of the bustling
which is its own to dispense: even the new toy down in Vineland (yeah,
Vine City, but perhaps with allusions to one of his mentors DAF might
waken from his American Splendour Funk Dayz that he's entered into a
demenia praecox over) (W2, for those following on MARTA) has already
shown the initial signs of unkempt topiary as the kudzu gains entrance
(but they DON'T play "Dixie" during the major functionaries pitch-
throws) and invite from the plenty faction which won't drive down
there anymore from dread of a misplace in the lack of a prosper
carpark: might as well be in California: no sense of urgency: no
bridges tossing cranes into crowds (See! Fandom recrimination tactics!
The Hunt for a Miss Windy City! Techno (this last for Robert Holder,
who suggests an mbm abacus-operator (count, man, count!) with an
unfortunate continuous voiceover) in sleek strobes!): and I find,
groggy, I'm out to Avondale (E7), where compensation Estates found
funding for hedgeways into the city proper (explanation: unlike most,
it never was the whole belonging to Fulton, and it couldn't be, as
"back in the good ol' days", unitary county power distribution would
not even allow for jerrymandering: so: expand (expand (expand)), and
own several counties, all in municipal palpitations (jury districts):
(and a criticism to GR[sic]'s Gook[sic]city: an ageist movement would
never take place in yr model city: heads are counted by their ability
to roll: but Aristocratic Remnants and old growth cash dist. tenets
make it a perfectly glorious Southern (Bournemouth, m'dear) bow of the
head: recast in treed civics)): so, I make my stalking stake: I Will
Locate and Eliminate the One Who This Week Calls Himself Ernest.  Well,
why not?  It's a vac(ill)ation, right?  Past Druid Hills (didja go
there, Gen. Millsap?) into thee glorious and most sacred mortal plain
of Emory

Intermission:	S A T-U-R D-A-Y NIGHT!  S A T-U-R D-A-Y NIGHT!

--Nina Hagen (ho, ho, just kidding, rilly it's the Bay City Rollers)

where I stood before the unfathomably unfinished Museum Pieces (marble
marvel, Cube) shouting "elcitset citehtsorp ym gnivom speek enoemos"
and finding that that has no effect: might as well be in California:
no sense of common distrust: Mr. Horrible (the critics rave (might as
well be in California)): are you Acworthy, 3133, Yarker, or, God
forbid, could there be more than one?

The Cuthbert saga was abrupt: searched in all the Malte Shoppes and
the Maltese Dome aforementioned, trailed it to Hoedown's (next to Tops
'n' Tails and pussycat corner to The Colon Aid where a bar tab bet
helped jog the whole of "the Ghastlycrumb Tinies" vex-like in mused
fashion out of my throat ("A is for Amy who fell down the stairs /
B is for Basil, assaulted by bears") before I found chagringing in
mine own ears that Willy don't play that city-side: nice Iron-Works
Facade, though.  Found a Suedehead in Hartsfield (S7) and knew I was
leaving just in time.

Not kidding, though, Yarker, about yer puny 98lb reference frame:
I nearly mistook you for one of us this last time, which you might
be at great pains to conceal.

Did I forget to mention the Whatizit scandal? Oh, yeah, alp's stymied.