Mary Grand -- ever the intellectual, despite her busy schedule as CEO of Love Mega Media -- found herself in a slump while working on her exegesis of the heretical text, “Littoral Traces: ‘Footsteps in the Sand’ Exposed,” because, although she could analyze and explain the text, she could not find anything to critically challenge in the author’s argument that the premise of the “Footsteps in the Sand” poem -- that one who is walking with the Lord, whether through good times (two sets of footprints) or bad times (one set of footprints), is walking on a sandy beach -- is contradictory to the Lord’s parable of Matthew 7:26, in which one who abides by his (the Lord’s) words is like the wise man who builds his house upon the rocks and one who doesn’t abide is like the foolish man who builds upon the sand; she was in a slump, that is, until she felt someone pick her up and start to carry her, at which time she had an epiphany that -- if it remained unchallenged -- would forever confirm the poem’s standing in the canon of biblical literature: “walking with the Lord,” “sand,” and “house” were not metaphors at all, but rather were used literally to mean that the Lord was carrying his followers in hard times so that they could plan how to build their mansions on rocks that were within walking distance to their private beachfronts! -- and feeling so buttressed, she landed solidly on her own two feet and vowed to expiate her lack of faith by committing herself to the acquisition of another struggling mom & pop company and to thereby increase (all for His Glory!) her (littoral) share of the Jersey shore.
Cynthia was initially exhilarated that her party’s leading challenger in the governor’s race chose her (Chose her!) to act as a stalking horse on one of the third party tickets to forfend a victory by the incumbent, but the more she reflected on what the act of drawing votes away from the “Hot American Babe” might require of her (Could she actually lie? Was she capable of incessantly talking in non-sequiturs? Would she have to eat moose-meat in public??), the more her excitement waned: she realized that, as a true Christian and member of the Love of Jesus Apostalic Church, she could never rally the masses into a hateful mob even for her own party’s gain (Fuel hate in the name of God?) and so she fell to her knees, right there in the nave -- in a crescent cast of moonlight that spilled through the ceiling’s lunette -- and prayed to the Lord for forgiveness.
Tony, the new director of Tinsletown Timeless Tours, finally agreed to the trustees’ insistence that the fleet of charabancs -- the later, motorized conveyances, not the earlier, horse-drawn ones -- be fungible, but he did so only under the condition that the fleet wasn’t ever replaced with horse and buggies; he could never get past that first Sunday morning after the day he turned twelve, when, instead of wearing the contemporary necktie his mother gave to him, he donned his Croatian grandfather’s gabardine cravat, only to be forever scarred by his mother’s invective: “You’re not going to church in that horse-and-buggy hug-a-neck, you little antique-fashion queen!” -- which forever turned his docile manner into the saddest kind of willfulness.
Dolores, taking a break from preparing supper, was downstairs quietly doodling, pushing her pencil this way and that as she pondered why she had of late become so interested in Darrin (who had always been such a nudnik), when she heard footsteps in the kitchen; so, thinking it was her exacting mother, she quickly got to her feet, ran up the stairs to return to the stove to stir the porridge, and didn’t know (how could she?) that the spurtle was not in the pan, but was, in fact (while she was in La La Land), suspiciously positioned at the top of the stairs where she was about to step on it and no doubt slip into an untimely and ghastly demise, were it not for the felicitous tug of her undergarments, which, mauger her mother’s admonitions not to do such unlady-like things, caused her to stop at the top step and “adjust,” allowing her to see the slurry-covered stick (and hear the click of high heels as her mother exited the room).
I was heading out of the lodge so as to take a leak, when Garrulous, the resident nudnik, tagged along and began what I expected to be another one of his maundering monologues; so, I was rather surprised when he began to talk about the time his mother cracked: in the midst of stirring porridge, she drew out the spurtle, dribbled spittle into a tittle of splattered batter, and started doodling with it while she prattled away -- which was all rather felicitous, given my need to understand whence his odd loquaciousness came.
A klatch of clairvoyants convened every evening, aiming to augur augustly; while Clara kvetched about her lentiginous skin, and Rose-Maude maundered in pitch-pointless Palinese, it was Svelda, who, mauger her own meager gifts, saw Clara and Rose-Maude become sightless.
My new regimen for improving mental health and keeping my grandiosity in check -- including the ingestion of various psychotropics four times a day -- was working just dandily until I had a daymare while I was sitting at my favorite wine and tapas bar: as the sommelier presented a bottle of ‘96 Chateau Montrose Saint Estephe, a vestigial tail poked out the back of my burgundy robe, growing long enough to wrap its creepy tip around the neck of the wine bottle and strong enough to rip the bottle out of the sommelier’s hands, thrusting it to the tile floor in a horrendous crash; it was my great grandmother, Mother Mary, who whispered into my neonatal ears that an alcoholic avatar of Vishnu had come again, such incarnations being, in our family, atavistic.
Even the least punctilious groomer among them cringed at the nanny’s description of Morgellons Disease; and if these parents had thought that the subcutaneous, multi-colored, nano-bacterial fibers inhered only in ugly ducklings who would later emerge as Apollos with perfect, painless skin, they were sadly mistaken: the disease was the crux of an orwellian plot in which the schoolmasters applied bioengineered preservatives to their kids' lunchmeat so as to render them powerless cripples.
My loquacious buddy didn’t agree with my assessment of the candidate being a tomnoddy -- or at least not in regard to her being a dimwit; he went on and on about how her rambling speeches and circular logic actually presented a text that could be read as an encomium to backward thinking, which in turn revealed how brilliant she was and perhaps proof that it didn’t take a byronic bleeding-heart to enthrall an electorate.
I thought it to be urban legend, but my buddy told me that he actually heard the byronic host of Hot Air Now claim, in his typical dramatic fashion, to have actually written “Encomium to a (Real) American Candidate,” a partisan praise-fest that inadvertently revealed what a tomnoddy the so-called candidate was -- a real nincompoop whose eschewal of science was so profound that, as reported by town hall moles, even the most loquacious bootlickers from her neck of the woods were, upon hearing words leave her mouth, left dumbstruck.
In her peremptory decision, written so vituperatively that it left readers dumbfounded, Judge Serenity Makepeace quashed the lower court’s ruling that media claiming to be news media must actually report relevant news, citing an obscure precedent that held that it is in the state’s interest to fill the people’s minds with the latest on Jon and Kate -- who slept with whom, and other such scuttlebutt.
Walking along the river, Sheryl suddenly found herself in the midst of a shantytown and shrieked at the unkempt mendicant whose empty can thrust toward her, lunging in want for more than mere handsel and kind word; however, in locking eyes with the loose-loined, sorcerous shyster, the milieu of a bacchanalia -- replete with wine, women, and song -- settled into her like sirens’ breath, and before she could stop herself, in a stage whisper, said, “Well, I suppose I have something to give.”
Charlie rode the fumes of his Johnny Walker Red hoping to get past the fetor of the peeping tom’s testimony and the incarcerate stink of res gestae: it was his very own mother’s cactus legs that sliced up her boss’s neck while her deep throat managed its oracular sentence, “This’ll be the last time you tell ME to shave!”
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