21/04/2014 - UNLESS WE HAVE BETTER TO DO

Unless we have better to do, let’s go ahead with the mainstream and trickle away the hours of the Backpack Saturnalia and prepare for the logistics. At least we have pretty assistants, stunning assistance in some cases, and we’re certainly on top of our game with gamma collars unbuttoned and casual attire worn over the threadbare cardigans that our morbid den mother stuffed into our cheeks as toddlers. She wants you to spend time with her, by the way, something about father and grandfather not being heirlooms anymore. She moved the mantelpiece half an inch to the right and then a decade to the left simply because the goblins in her skull told her to do so before wraths were incurred and such like. She’s still not right as you can probably feel through grapevines and other sunny tendrils. The vermin of the world incubate while she starts this all up again.

But just look at you, you fiendish puzzle. You deserve to play on the big daddy platter for smoking purposes. Could you be anymore viscous with the Unborn Cavity? Can’t be assuaged, won’t be assuaged by less honourable groin grommets. Later on. We could do that, of occurrence. Bright ideas just pop and then leave without even fizzling. Seems an awful waste, awful plump. Curly comments with tea and scones ready to go. Anything you say is snug beneath flannel and retreated plastic. By the sea, they say the weather’s fantabadozy. I do too, in fact.

Weekend trippers though. Have you seen what they do to the guestbook with their selection of choppers? The priests keep telling me with their drifting panty lines. Seems an awful waste to me, a creative lead like that. Nobody ever said that delegates can be chosen for their choice and the noise that that choice makes in pervaded air. Desperate measures can be pleasant if you’re deceased and hearty with business acumen. We only get it in on Sundays. No-one should knock before swallowing all the royal cleaning implements as well as the squire. He looks thicker now that the pasta dish has passed through him, looks to have bashed a bit too for flavour. How gratifying in the second. The bank cashier wants to sell before the sound of crashing curtains slays his string quartet. That’s the fiddle player and he is bowled over by the advancement of the digital age on his irritable pocket protectors. He isn’t fortunate.

Everybody rears back in foppish peppermint, it really does get everywhere so mind you grab a bun to sweep up the remaining dusty spread. We’ll come again when the menu comes out with variations of high-born discrimination. The serving will be disastrous and the handiwork shall have to shine through because their no room for even minor improvements in the previous faculty. It’s unfortunate, we know, but that’s the way of the windy season; you say alas one too many times and the police are about your necks, rubbing your noses in perimeters.