There is no empathy in a Slayer pit.
Someone write that down… deviancy dictates it will be of use before the credits roll; all of this is based on a true story skewed to twist the odds and gain the advantage. This is the science behind the scene of the crime… ask any physicist, no matter the outcome, it’s difficult to ignore the cat in a box… what with the constant faxes from counsel for the defense piling up on the turnpike… impeding the flow of non sequitur traffic in France and most, if not all the ships at sea.
This is not to say that a minor insurrection by the greater good would be of any service to anyone, anywhere… by any means. But who are we to judge… especially after 3p on a Friday..? We have previous engagements and flustered entanglements to attend… of which, as of yet, we are far from prepared. We may have moved up in the world, but it is still an abhorrent task when all the bowling shoes are far too large for the small-minded paint by number con artists posing as legitimate circus affiliates from Kosovo.
Perhaps… if we are able to fuse the bits and pieces of who we think we are and where we were supposed to be, we can link together the incongruent sausages of substantial deniability… form a cohesive train of thought… something loud and crunchy to keep the spongy squares and spam mail order brides on their cumulative toes. Journalistically speaking, if the person or persons in question arrive spindled, folded, mutilated or dehydrated, the miracle off homeopathic medicine is always at the ready… with special care and attention to avoid inadvertent drownings as there is no lifeguard on duty and every single one of these swimmies have been scientifically proven to be resistant to significant aquatic use. Illiterate ducks in a conspiratorial pudding pond of rage… tragedy hidden within the shadow of glamor and the fatal glare that emanates from the holiday ham.
Face it… it’s a process… most things are.
Some are tradition, others are harmoniously in sync with the vast nothingness that consumes us all. Either way, the plane ride ends in a farce… everyone disembarking into the deluge… seating is limited, so be sure to arrive early. No trains will be sold after the magazine is emptied into a depot shot… smoking area is for authorized personnel only and if you get peanut butter, be sure to get smooth.
For the record as well as the much anticipated 8 track, we here at the Old Swiss Bakery & Multifactorial Northeastern Birthday Parallelogram Greeting Card Warehouse, LLC do solemnly attest, under oath and over board, to our original statement: the hastily refolded map of Belgium in the glovebox was here when we arrived, so it’s best to avert your eyes and get back in the duffle bag where it’s safe… mind the fractal staircase… it can be treacherous.
Don’t tell the cat.
He’s prone to folly and given the current state of the national diastema, he’s most likely already dead inside, regardless of his actual listing in the thanatological manual of alms and alm nots.
THEY'LL BE QUEING UP FOR THIS BYLINE BY GUM
We last saw Gabriella Garofalo, our nimble vixen of valor and virtue, beset by the bullshittery of no-goodery...besieged by absurd peril and afflicted by undisputable chicannery...the likes of which...should she ever escape... would genuinely pair well with hearty soup sponge baths; a holy heiny hug from the Bishop on the Rug; twelve Congressional hearings (+/- 2 kilos/cm/ Senatorial hedgehoggers) ... and thousands upon thousands of frantically scrawled, billets-doux...penned from the ink wells of desperate, though mostly sincere souls.
Mostly.
Trembling hands and quivering quills...all flightless and bleeding... begging for her hand and her boobs in non sequitur matrimony. Missives, memos and encyclical fellows...a callithump of solicitors, sauciers and saboteurs...around the globe, in lieu, and tous le Jours...their hearts and their thoughts in heaps on her hearth, and four mimes silently eaten by bears.
"What shall I do", she thought to herself, as the smoke from her darts filled the air.
Should she move upside, and let the man go through?
Should though she could, dodge the heinous and hazardous...the prat falls, the mosh pit vipers...the bougie, the slick and the woozy... the bed wasps and the trumpet nests...and even the boobytraps?
Could though she would, should she stroll down the mountain, shuffle over the mole hill and sift through the mob of misinformed misanthropes? Seamlessly sauntering...teasing and taunting... unscathed, unbothered, unbedeviled by badgers or by tipple...stoically dapper...applause from the crapper...and yet... appropriate at dinner parties?
I mean, yeah.
Our lass is a lass of infinite possibilities, parlance and drams full of Jack...she makes nay excuse, nor bed, nor bones. Everything in this world attracts each and other thing with a force equal to the product of the masses, divided by the square between them, multiplied by Newton's constant (as well you know).
There are no exceptions.
Not for autonomously festive holiday ham cards, tangential modicums of decency, not for paint by imaginary number kits or random plagues of scalawags, pussyfooters or mouldy rapscallions lurking in the shadows of your vintage Franklin Minty Fresh Dental Collector Plates signed by Franck Cinquième, DDS.
Not even for tax purposes.
Allegedly.
Nothing could be more plain nor less simple. Synonymous to the "hello, howdy, ciao, right niao and right brau" familiar to anyone lost in a labyrith of hamlets and burgs whilst narrowly studying abroad.
Hey...lighten up, amigo.
It's the lingo of the land, man.
The smartest of squares and broadest of hips are cool with it...so why not give it a go for yourself? After all, Lucretius taught us nothing if...no, wait...maybe it was Duplicitus...doesn't matter...whoever it was , was the wiseiest of guise... teaching the nature of this and of that...above all and below par, the importance of the allibi.
"To prepare is to rapier." he would shout, as he was fished out of the amphorae...again.
The point is... you never know...until you know.
By the time you know...you need a lawyer....preferrably one from Michigan... well versed in unabridged Belgium cartography statutes.
No need to make bones when you can make bail.
Friend, foe, flora and fawna...each and every one endlessly pondering through long days and short sight, how could Gabriella be such a terrific lady ? What lays between lies of macarame eyes that grind pepper and planes with their glare.
The tin and zinc man and their Chevy shoe vans ...surely they are the chaff beneath her wing. Confusing and confounding the onlookers and the gawkers ... barcrawlers and on again offers. Sallying forth into fifths and coups d'Etat... a jiggle, a jaggle...a pulley, a tuggy, a rum runner buggy and eggy her wegs for themselves.
Oppressive centuries trapped within romper rooms, beneath the weight of leisure suits, lured by the promise of cocaine propaganda...they circle the drain to their doom. Irate from the chaste; primed for the Oui to their hustle with booming brass balls to y'all!
She is plucky and perky, fresh brewed , not freeze dried..a chariot ride on the rodeo clown sun or a snuggly bug-a-boo-booth of any dimly lit, unlisted poco de pico cocktail lounge off the turn pike, but right up her alley.
Tacky.
No matter...whatever the occasion, situation, or episodic event, (Je crois qu'on appelle ça un triplé). Dullards to Dumas, straight razor to jacket, all gala gals know, when you sweat through the fretts, there are no regrets.
All vinyl spins for the sleek and the slim , please check your bag at the door.
This is not a test. every hand is on deck when that chassis hits the floor.
Sit, basic bitch, will you please.
A mile of height from your heels and your couth, made you light headed, not hearted, and you sneezed right down to your knees.
Call today! Beat the rush to the bush!
Seating is limited! All wounds are left gaping!
Chapped hands, raw hides, cow pokes, churros and burros!
You got 'em, we want 'em!
All interesting trades considered.
Anyone wishing to discuss any of the information contained herein, are cautioned to the presence of state funded purveyors of conformity. Speaking out is to risk the permanent confiscation of your oars; stranding you and your dinghy, so sure you'll capsize before dawn. The good news is, you still have your dinghy... your buoyancy is your resistance; further from shore, but far beyond futile.
Speak up, shout out and squawk back...they can't take us all
All patrons with questions regarding the titmouse breeding initiative fiasco...independent archival masters of Germanic words suitable for use when naming a cat...problematic doodlers of pastoral gerunds...or any person therein wishing to fulfill a request for free refills with proof of purchase, may contact Gabriella directly,freely, sporadically or by proxy... any Tuesday after 3:00 PM (local time ).
chickenofdoompress@gmail.com
Wait!
One more thingy thing worth mentioning before we burn the straw men and bring the locusts back home.
If you're having a grim go of it all...overwhelmed, on edge, freaked the fuck out and mondo stressed...relax. Break out the Faygo, pump your Jake brake... and get the hot tubble bubbles a guggling... stand up but not still as this opens you up to malaria, yellow fever, weird smells and swamp monsters.
Sip a little, smoke a bittle more, and watch these MK Ultra high quality videos and masterpiece shorts available only on Puppy Boogie Town Express Shaw Shaw's Youtube channel. (Gabriella's Numero Doggo Mio and In-House Federal Planaria Advocate):
http://www.youtube.com/@PuppersBoogieTownExpress
