The range of semi-applicable to absolutely viable reasons for not dispatching anything here is, after a bit of quick math, between two dozen and forty-three thousand. There have been planes, yes trains, and my automobile has been critically(HARDLY) scarred throughout this gross-ass season, not that anyone gives a shnarj of course... and really, it's a blessing-under-stars as any Wicker Parker that might behold the owner of his or her favourite java clubhouse banging around in a near-polished bimmer would probably drop a pile of insta-boycott on my ass that very second.

LE THOROUGH UNREMARKABLES...

a) Rachel McAdams(CARTOON JAW) sat in Ruth's dinner seat. Twice, maybe. And, without permission.
b) Highest point on St. Lucia? Conquered, by way of human feets.
c) A volcano blew up and nearly doubled the air time from UVF > JFK. Awesj.
d) Glen Beck was delivered via satellite far too often. Not surprisingly, he's still obese, shameless.
e) The WORMJOB(tm) CAFE probability gauge currently rates around 119%... excited, nobody isn't.
f) Smartness(tm) poured a pound of white mocha into his MacBook ('Blackie'); status, relegated to MediaServ.
g) Per the variety of obvious, I've now been required to consume A FUCKLOAD OF COFFEE, comparatively.
h) Consequently, my teeth are near-dead, think Sleepy Hollow, Walken, Christopher.
i) There are endless chicken/egg/embryo/proto/shell/casing dilemmas interlaced within the elements required for a hatchling business here. City/state/mayoralty, will you please, kindly converge, and look upon me, favourably? Yes, let's...
j) Oh, and my specs were destroyed. Via asian sleepzone punch-assault maneuver delta phi. It's quite effective, don't you know, though you mightn't...
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Let's get the unemployment rate nearer to 7% than %12(or 20% if you count underemployed)... before we think about such overhauls again.

We do not need to reinvent the wheel.
What's worked before? Stop stepping on the throats of small to medium sized businesses. Oh, and the big ones. Yea. Don't forget the big ones.
(( C ))

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Many hilarious events have, without question, come to pass. My sister refused a joint shower session with me over the holidays specifically on the account that "Her Back Was Acting Up"... for instance... which isn't exactly the bridge to normaltowne, but neither is Mamabear(tm) spewing Tiger Woods (v) Santa jokes(jokes)((jokes))... of course I overrode her "He Only Had Three Hos" punchline with my own classy brainchild "Because Santa Only Comes Once A Year"... that's very, very nice. Nobody really understands me, aside from three to maybe eight people. And by eight I mean four.

As the panties of the afterlife would desire it, entire yards of snow destroyed some gaydar-infused Nassau infestation.. thingy. And then, a phantom storm of frozen rain shifted around travel plans for most of us agri-spawn. That's FARMERBABES to you. But, just like a boomerang trade-up in Zelda III, I've received some sort of a volcano jewel hunt in return. Romancing the Scone(FETA CHEESE PLS), you could say. Well, the little one is problematic and increasingly worthwhile. Wouldn't it behoove one to remind oneself what was happening at or around the Beginning Times. Probably; or just maybe, it could be a warrant for imminent chaos. When you know what you want, you know what you want, whether you're Isla Fisher, Christopher Walken, or even me. Humans are difficult, though. My baby-pup is easier to grasp, most days. Physically, I mean. Psychologically I don't have a damn clue what he's dealing with.

What I think I've just done is refused to discuss the issue. Well, it's in the basement, at least its things are. That's where they are kept(STREWN ABOUT IN A TORNADIC FASHION). I got a freaking Before the Before Time translucent boy-gaming device from it. And that's not even a billionth as worthwhile as this laminated slip of paper that allegedly transforms it into a Rikku-avatar at mine earliest convenience. Sadly, I intend on hanging onto that for many weeks, months, years, or lifetimes, whatever span is required so that I might proudly present said glorious fastpass to my replacement.

"...Hey Tommy, turns out I have this document here that summons up a Korean girl, apparently yours, and she has to look like this picture here... I'm flexible but... before the next Olympics, aight?.."

Is that coming up. Interesting.
Let us attempt to stay alive long enough.

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-> (L)ICESTORM
-> SHARKS AVOIDING DESTINY
-> SANTA JOKES JOKES JOKES
-> BACK PROBLEMS & SHOWERS
-> TOMMY AND THE EX
-> THE GUTS OF ELECTRONICA
-> THE NUTS OF MAURITANIA
-> PUP SNUGGIES WHY
-> RETROGRADE LOW ( ? )
-> BIRDBREAD(tm) ):
->Tyler, Is Fucking, Cooking(Dicing, Segmenting, Grounding, Simmering)...
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And we wrapped ourselves in the scions of the past, amongst the threads of those that could only intertwine themselves with memories, albeit of the potentially severest degree, as invariably as those shadows might solidify...

Well now. Sometimes you've just got to make decisions. It's been a year's worth of very large, occasionally sweeping adjustments. I'm absolutely exhausted right now. There is nothing on this previously un-destroyed planet that reeks more of my existence then the month of November. The eleventh month is when absolutely everything happens, simultaneously. It's a quad-core CPU, baby. Every other one of the twelve is usually a shitty AMD from the Before Time, when I was but the simplest of teachers' spawn. And let's be fair, those were the times we all will inevitably covet once again... in the aftermath of... the shifting, rupturing maneuvers of this Earth's interiors, be they psychological, career-path leveraged, or High Energy Pulse Device afflicted courtesy the Borg-enhanced Romulan ship, the Narada.

Look. I'm rusty. I can scarcely produce a friggin' syllable here in less than a half hour. I've been watching the clock, even as Mr. Stotch buries the swine-flavoured remains of his blessed son, Butters. I've diverted my comfortable temporal boulevard entirely. It's being increasingly transformed into the Extreme... where highs, and lows, and probably nothing in between is waded through with any regularity.

Should I ship Ruthicle to Abu Dhabi?
Is that really, absolutely necessary?
Is the basement really another, separate world?
Is it wise to reproduce that which is inescapable?
Is Jesus a kind lady boy?
Why the frick can't a kid just accept something very, very nice?
Perhaps I'm becoming more conducive to the idea?
Perhaps I'm... an... Abomination... ?
Yes... I must... I... must... feed... ?
And really how much cash could I actually stand to lose?
In Wicker Park, where hipsters are clamoring for a clubhouse?

But wait. The front, rear, center, & juicy flanks of the brain I've got here are being commandeered all too often by the reverse Inchon landing. Like if Inchon were Edgewater Glen, Chicagolandtownej. Must. Control. And mitigate. The effects of. This. Little. Perennial-woody-plant-challenged... __AZN___


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