31/05/2013 - THE INCENTIVE

The incentive is to go and chomp at the dimming switch. The incentive is to marvel at the tape recorder while it recites your roof fitting measurements. The incentive is to become a helicopter filled with painkillers. The incentive is to lay the cable. The incentive is to become Danish assessment records. The incentive is to open a coffee shop specifically catering for barristers. The incentive is to become balmy in retrospect. The incentive is to rule out yodels entirely. The incentive is to wear lasagne. The incentive is to nick chips. The incentive is to pratfall. The incentive is to have luck for it. The incentive is to grab a spoon. The incentive is to become bereft of the lovelies, of the luddites, of the left-wing progression. The incentive is to monk. The incentive is to lose paper hats and release the chocolate stain. The incentive is to replicate conditions of the same hashed experiment we've all already tried and failed at. The incentive is progression of the highest order. The incentive is the kingmaker. The incentive is the witless banter. The incentive is the drive to do things okay. The incentive is to slide seamlessly in and out of practicality.

            The form runs dry from that point onward. The material witness was out of doors by then and got hit by a haymaker to the complex. Withdrawal was the initial symptom, then it spread to the feet and Riga Mortis tied down the curtain, laced it with hereditary poison. The witness slunk down into a new age of Sunday weather, they became one with the plus sign all over again. There are of course far worse places to be in one's life but to go without a whistle is to sign a death sentence with your own gift token.

            The Thane of Service applied for hair and makeup as the last test subject became a liquidated version of circle time. It was critical to mentor the Deadly Montgomery, the man who lives under Mr. Thank's hat, because his stationery is the finest delicacy for the living, flowering filing cabinets. Get a foothold in this galactic positron and your rights will shoot up along with the price. To be allowed £6.50 for depression photos takes the fool a little bit over his fashionable goals. There is indeed a ballpark and the bridesmaid are jockeying the lapels into works of spectral art. Flowers for the ceremony: rhododendrons they think.

            Save a hundred if you think it's grand. Scamps go out of the parlour for different reasons that dither across dream logic. Seventy four puppets riding the pulpits. Eighty nine times to be taken. Sixty six marshes off the beaten track. Five hens in an offshore drama. Fifty five elocution lessons to be tied down with tenterhooks. Zero conglomerates waiting in the holdings. Thirteen sticks of formaldehyde  shoved into the tapeworm of the mouldy star. Forty seven death defying archery posits. Ninety six thousand, eight hundred and one marching orders out of town.