Far-Fetched

Stern army fandanglers initiate the bizarrest of letterbox rituals as a way to compensate for their minimal internal squawking about where in the hell to buy a caramel macchiato during a Thursday afternoon rush hour—it’s definitely the most congested freeway seen around these parts in quite some time, the rubbernecks all out in force and jamming up the left lane to catch glimpses of a minor fender bender where the only detail of note would be the involvement of a clown car. Fortunately, no actual clowns happened to be in or, indeed, even around said automobile, or traffic would surely would be at a complete standstill.

The question remains: why is there a clownless clown car on the road? A rational observer would surmise that it’s headed to the shop, getting an oil change or tire rotation, or perhaps being treated to the periodic hand car wash and wax (one of Flopsy® the Clown’s numerous contract stipulations). Suffice it to say that none of these scenarios would benefit from the presence of a real live clown, unless some sort of clowning industry discount were to apply to these local auto-maintenance establishments, which seems utterly far-fetched (yet plausible if our society only knew who pulled the strings).

Never gonna get that got damn macchiato…

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Parlor

Perusing the parlor of the Parisian Peruvian consulate wouldn’t be so difficult, were it not for the giant window-washing syndicate purporting to require seven hours a day, every day, to free the egalitarian edifice from smudges and insect remnants that would otherwise mar the immaculate façade and strip its dignity away through a slight uptick in entropic rate that would, over the course of two to three generations (depending on who you speak to on the topic) detereriorate that aesthetic je ne sais quoi, anywhere from 14 to 17% per decade on average. Extrapolating from there, we’re looking at complete disavowal of the skin-deep school of architectural and biological beauty that allowed our “modern civilization” to “flourish” under the spell of charming artifice.

So good luck ever getting into that parlor, and don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.

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