Figurine damage indication is just one of the important areas [here at Gareth Laboratories] where I’ve made myself indispensable. I’ve trained 54 associates–and counting–to specialize in the sixteen elements that directly contribute to the continuation of our great institution. I’ve created a simple mnemonic device for them: HOME SMELLS FUNNY P. I’m not very good with anagrams, so that last P is just kind of sticking out there to the side. But that doesn’t matter very much to me, because it serves as a reminder of the absurd penguin amendment to the corporate charter that Lance’s nephew added as a joke (but then ironically caught on like wildfire when I unknowingly passed out invitations to the zoo’s new special penguin house later that afternoon). Coincidences sure are a bitch.
A walloping armpit extension cord signals a breach of conduct between extended penguin locker scenes. Meanwhile, a trailer of sloppy prejudice leans between a cross-country ski and the entrance to a long-abandoned silver mine, incapable of bettering its situation among the shapes of molten stoicism openly exhibiting themselves through displays deployed by wriggling strings undetectable to most, save the above average marsupial intellect.
Those beings who matter most to the incorporated inhabitance cannot comprehend the visual acumen of a kangaroo or wallaby due to the shoddy basis for communication between mammalian classmates, but certain attributes must be understood for the sake of all terrestrial life.
First draft posted on 11/15/11,
originally entitled #72
To the chagrin of the motorbiking penguin-flipper, we carry old prairie weights for a regardless happenstance. Well, regardless, we’re quite unkempt for the situation–the scenario, if we will. But it’s okay, we’re all living some version of this or any other truths, not to be degraded for any reason or purpose.
The bellwether, or weather of bells–as I’d sometimes rather say–has stood in direct opposition to the canine point of equilibrium separating our ancestors from the ravenous wolves who once stormed down our doors for even just a hint of carnage. But times change. People grow and domesticate those pesky sheep they’d once only counted prior to slumber, involuntarily offering a small portion of their flocks to satisfy the taxation meted out by the gods that our dogs only wish they could be.
The day of I know not what but I always could figure it anyway if you asked me to, but not if you ask me in a way commensurate with the smiles you’re bound to receive when I let my mother’s antique movie penguin replica collection go into the record books as a swindler’s dream, very never-so-minded and genuinely enraptured by the Germanic trepidation we all seem to face on a daily basis.
Stronger than the average jurisdiction machine, I marvel at the time I shot penguins through dragon school as a favor to my mother, on account of her love for penguin scholarship “what with the range of predicaments exclusive to this underwhelming era that brings us nothing but worry.” Or she would say something in that vicinity, at least.
So today, just like any other day, we spill the courage of the middle class across our collective janitorial musings, content to soak up any modicum of civility that would be offered to us upon completion of a correspondence course (for a nominal charge, of course).