🚀 go-pugleaf

Listen, strait-set, sunshrike, I have never challenged you.  Never.
I would follow you to the selvedges of the world & over, pass you
the salt even if you hadn't said "please", explain to the customs
officers that you were sporadically colo(u)r-blind and really meant
no harm, laugh at your feeblest jokes provided you indicated by
facial expression or subconscious gesture that you had reached
the punchline, agree with you that you having annoyed me (that is to
say, having not annoyed me) and me having been annoyed by you (that is
to say, not having been annoyed by you) were two quite different
things, auditch over-reliance on dubious alliances, watch cholesterol
with you on rainy Saturday mornings, send you the red folder on
LIBWCA, anything rather than challenge you.  Not, as you'll find
by reading the minutes, that I care.  And, if a correction, which is
a lesser blot entirely than a challenge, may be permitted: there is
no High Commander of the Regiment, with the result that it keeps
mutinundating, taking half-days off outside of holiday-schedule,
and shooting itself in the back.

Excellent story, m'[fish] very [fish] dear [fish], self praises to
hilt & urges tbcontinuation, though you seem to confuse yr Roinn
Oideachais with yr chocolate biscuit, yr Literary Underground, yr M,
and the extenter-hooks of yr failings.

A nightclub, dismal, you on yr third (3rd) whiskey planning to
profess eternal devotion & boredom, self on the balcony collecting
snails to throw at you should you dare, you powdering chalk to
sell as illicit substances, self singing quietly memories of la la
la la la till you look up and frown "I Said NO Music", you on yr
mobile phone staking assignations, self calmly penning a note to the
Daily Telegraph ordering one of those Hear a Whispered Conversation
Clearly Across a Crowded Room or yr Money Back thingies, you stopping
the cheque; quick, pass me a handkerchief, I feel a portrait of
Nietzsche & God in the Bahamas coming on & comfortless "rush swoop
fly strafe crash" into yr arm's length hyperbolic whole-lotta-syrup
something-came-upp-up-&-away-ity have-done-with best-interests
business-whose-business stronghold, there to dwell contagiously
unsafe & unwarm as notified even should you smile smil smi sm s...

Then, all comes to a halt as I cop this for a phenomenon.  Consider:
Letter A: Mon, 22 Jun 1992 22:18:00 GMT, & Letter B: Mon, 22 Jun 1992
22:23:22 GMT, the important point being that the latter is in reply
to the former.  A appears @sbccvm at 22:19:24 GMT.  Allowing one (1)
minute for an extravagant estimate of the length of time it would
take to glance cursorily at and totally misunderstand the contents
of A, this leaves, as a passing micro-chip calculates, just short
of four (4) minutes for the composition and typing of a reply.  Now,
here is the bit that throws me: another passing microchip informs me
that B runs to 315 words, averaging 78.75 words per minute.  Taking
into account the actual composition (albeit slapdash) of the reply
within the same time, and the fact that it was punctuated, I say to
self "migod, he can type."  Self's notion of learning to type fast
lasted only the five minutes it took for self to discover that self
does not have an attention span.  Letter B also has the infernal
nerve to contain a word unfamiliar to me, viz., "rutabega".  I tell
a passing microchip, sorry, I mean H770, to fetch me a dictionary, and
look up said word, to find it actually more or less exists, and
signifies a Swedish turnip, upon which I close the dictionary and
gently place it on a shelf.  Self is developing an inferiority simplex,
cannot compete, and is going home.

[jellyfish],
h.

&&&what is a "gerne biete ich mich dir an"?