The 'Piaza Edict' at D.A.R.P.A. -- My Strange Case as an Equestria Expatriate
--Cumorah, 19~90s[6,9] - ~2010s
ON: WEIGHT-COST ANALYSIS,  THE 'AAA WRESTLE', CONTRACTOR 'SORRY' FEE.
#f( )
CMRA<->RADC(CUT)<->CASE (CUT)<->CMU (CUT)<->BELVOIR (CUT)<->ABERDEEN (CUT)<->RUTGERS (CUT)<->DC
PATENTED§BOLT BAREK & NEWMAN (BBN), US5319735A
In effect for caucus? Total: 'R' (SNTX.CLR.) connections.
[In effect for caucus? Total: six-teen (16) connections.
Enfilade! Enfilade! 'Low that jaufre's sibilance! Cloche-cord! Let all subcutaneous subculver! Filly-o.
Cord-cloche! Cord-cloche! Let the axis silver-salver. Perdie-ho.
Giussepe Guignol in the flesh, he's right there at that fountain, make-aquiesce of his footground layed silver-salver of the the droimnin (now surely un-contested). I was pasting my Thursday with pictures of me in my nightgowns out by the office because I didn't have the guts to be a total camgirl, some blank van came over by the street sedulously and dropped off some totally rabied dogs, the inspector Go-Go-Gadget out by it was wearing a latte&grey trenchoat and short kwaki-khahi shorts that showed off his disruptive camouflage pattern of black towerereds that came out of his pores like he was a golfboy who couldn't keep up his handicap. Total fugue, his centrimass sucking the ground in a w:h-isp, he so wishes he was err--get in the macabre. I was totally front-loaded (headwise) and took my paracetamol sizzling and pretended I was taking X and/or processwise being spiked and roofied by some total cheap Tangier angel half-hooded in sheets that could only be that of an angel as I was half-loving as I was half-asleep with strikes of visions of being loved as the catty corner of my eyes deflated and atrophied (antonymization of pupil dilation), I'm going to Passadity on my own terms and -- if I didn't have enough to make my case for being an indigo baby, I was going to make sure of that. I watched as the grown-up Mad ™ magazine boy that Conrad -- some bug-eyed cutie-- took his hypertension medicine valiantly and I just thought about how Marie would draw from her well of glands for spit to spit and collect like rainwater in her own mouth to make easy the swallowing of these huge cellulosed blue capsules of Hippocraticrook-prescribed phony valerate and some CCs of pinocchium (dramamine guaranteed). When all lay compacted call it fusillade, one unit being all on the blaire blame for it. --That dean reading it out like a total toddler, talk of some. Cartridge liasions and tracer rounds tu-du-du-du-du-DA! Contracters need make a down payment for ensuring the surance of  brass nu-tek-tu-du-du-DA! Real fine work of you, Pete-sie... thank you Peterson. Venera-16 landed in full telemetrical time orbit just as a guy with his potbelly bulging in foci made vulture scan of the roundtables and we all thanked him for some talk of a reason. Thanks Stevie; we didn't know how to inform him that all that talk of some incoming charcuterie Friday-- or the serious development of any systems would leave us some nights to write some writs to our hanging bosom squzre wives and battle ax girlfriends that we somehow didn't know which to pick from. R-- coughed up and tried out scraping with his tongue whatever dollarice he got from the drugstore (they sell both vibrators and chicken stock broth). --I love him but innna homeway, come back round '6 type, talk out some elementary talk for a change (---); get bolo-lassoed round '4 for a midnight-lasting crucifix of TPS reports allwhile upside down and all that stuff, I was born out on the street that night, tar placenta all on hair and all. A digital houdini with some traces of regular prep--who started hanging out with digital yippies and hippies and fully fledged self-taught yawning brujos of a live T.V. ghost coven-- was birthed right there down on the street circling a hydrant, he looking up in some thirst and was waiting for it to rain/ask the functional one of his squared-both covettes, one still could take a joke how a gearscrewing wrench worked on those red things. Her field report is intented both as some accounts of the strange case of  how translates have no rhythm and so, a few words for you, D--, pneunorotary-matic snore suppresion and a new going at it for general systems, ergo-- tracheaplastic earwax-forms. They've essentially found a way to make my throat a whole ordeal of a turbine. They have this program. O, is it fabulay, I tell  you --they do chest compressions on you, and it's a pretty lady too, none of that talk of those brett-buxom broads. At my last physio-éche-kitty checkup, they told me what-- they told me they have finally found the jolly green American, I tell you what. I was spinning around that office chair like I had just spent the last 50 years of my life sitting. Get that ana-e-allo-aero-bic bish bosh. Try it out and kiss me later.-- Fax it to me and it'll be a whole yippie-kayay. In Dallas, BTD. A. Wall the veiled celebrity famous in proxy for that time she played seven and eight roles of Molly Long-leg, legs totes shaved in long strokes of "I don't know you.", like a total absence of that (abcess for others, dealbreaker, the first down) of those diagonally angled in system spacenaut-like in their like aim at Mars and Venus, that sharp field of grass I love on my men, gone-- picked at her hair for either a ninth and tenth role of Molly Long-leg or press conference with an extra bright spot (she strips her teeth in detox of accumulated street miasma and the lightworker's morning breath). In this is pseudosanguination (kayfabal download of some thoughts you only feel while watching T.V.) -- I'm not to judge, see below, thx-- now coalescence of her 'tru'Mind and her ur-mind (not your mind), she looks at the mirror and says "Honey, (--looking at my own mirror, I get my hots from other peoples vogues at moi) this is the new social programme." She gets ready by stripping now her calendar in long legs of paper she decided --like the O.K. from man and streetworker lacking for that shrub (in it lives fawn and my best friends Ladybug) to lay its plot of land long in couch potato. (N.H. dances with her in his mind) BTD A. Wall. is enVogue and fashions her Sears magazines into "Choose your own adventure", this is imperative in a big stern handshake that catches your ballot like a strung-out navy-baby fishnet, she thinks to herself , "Where and why would have my Kennedy and Diana gone tunneling in ya," she clips a pen thru her shirt, "this is life, o ya." (This is one of her download sanguines, like Kaufman and his Foreign Man, her crying jumbo tambourine and African drum playing in a totes sawb) Now there's more to think about, she pampers her face white and hugs the nearest ultraViolet in "This is what amplifies, this is what lives thru it all, o ya." Her teeth ache and she chews that piece of paper to calm that jostling down, looks in her satellite-angled handmirror in disappointment ("Where's the toothfairy gone..."). Felix J. Ac. tells her it's about an hour clockby and lets her manuscribe that Felix J. Ac. is her consultant advisor and lightworker#- for breakfast and afternoon, and she chews him out for being lame, "So this is how they do it in Texas, so this the way I find my steps breadcrumbed for a better look at Lady Liberty, in a totes o ya." Seven ate nine, Blue is Purple's cutie boyfriend, Saturn castrated his father (in hechos), this is the news. That pinball was circling around attitude with one of the stray dogs left behind, ready to creak his sneakershoes and pounce out at the K9 with this shank Sunday- made out (viz. electrical tape, a bic pen's outtrails, and a scissor).  Thru the simple mind, in all of its quadcameral goodness is the arithmotherapic worksheet for time dilation and CERN scoffed and Notre Héro (N.H.) carved out an odd number of hearts with an extra-dove exacto as onto I was losing his mind in powerlines that Sunday (still not diluted with that Black and Blue, Black and Blue...,) -- but he still had a mind of mine, it lives right next to those arching shoes, signaling some recent layover or taped-up tapestries of some faraland Rastafari (enhancement done on-line). In the blue afternoons, I took care of him thru digital manifestations and my nu nuSphere painting (I call it..) in tremble of whatever I was feeling and I had been cyberstalking him now for well over the halfcourse of the Winter and all of that strange billowing --oh ya we felt that together--, the autoimmune compromises were too lonely, blue for more than one. That wild concrete had its glottal spasms out in jubilee as it just realized what being alive forever means. He finally curled his big toe and pounced at the wild dog like this was a chance of his to say "I'm no sick dog," pulling up his checkered sleeve, "I know one when I see one." He barely could have counted the ticks [s < (:)] and that dog laid him on the asphalt and started pulling at his cheeks like it was jerky, making a total mangle and sputter of everything under his brow. Three email daemons (or of what chinos they were wearing) were bludgeoned out by digital ghosts (blindsided by Justicia in inadverent sools at the cyberstalker's feet-permindexes sounding out like lighter flicks) into strecthed out parchments of tallow and veniwalls and the K9 dealer came sidepath near the zebra stripes and shot his airgun at the mangling dog, almost gave that dog some sick earpiercing but missed by the skin of his teeth slightly rotting from all that coffee he was drinking. His beltbuckle slammed at his hipbones violently everytime italicized and flailed these hand gestures he learnt and sedulously incorporated in his somatic vocabulary like some desperate baby of a microwaved mom on her twinlet marathon. She was showing it off at Catholique mass, waiting for her belly to turn gold like a lovecharm of a statue, he got all his units from mailmen and mailcarriers who got tired of the Anhauser and Jerry (T.V. premiered by the time you got home) and wanted to turn a quick upturned buck for the community, alloting all the morning and myrtle of the schoolkids for secured votes and charity jars (d.Rm and stick-kids with unicorn smiles). Marvin the Martian proceed by ziplight traw to Brooklyn and mindprobed the K9 dealer by Q-tipping Pu-36 T.N.T dynamite and forced Frank the K9 dealer to an hero or felon de se by forcing him to light his own match in a, «Let me do the honors -- I'd like to raise a toast to Keratintone-66 and the holy matrimony of .uuur ears and a blast. 10-5. Boom-yah.» Marvin the Martian gets lost in his own words and out from the hole of his Waywest rooster rotary -- surveillance-pixelization, «Show me your eyes young man, I don't bite :P,» says oldtimer Margaret, against hats indoors -- Marvin the Martian tunes down his Baofeng UV-09R unlicensed police scanners and pets his silly fillyfrumentarii, K-9. Our her was totally coughing and sounding like a puking cougar and all I could think about was if the Holy See and their Holiness could tell we just coughed 'cus othe jerky air and not out of congenital phlegm (I still have the original sin)--they have a gag reflex and some pharyngeal amateur for spitting up right as the dollarpill came close to their tongue--, while a total angel was totally Kurt-Krugel-ing it out like a pro-fressional (I had spent most my blue afternoons pretending it was a puking competition). I tied up the midsection of the handkypart of my shirt to cover up my eyes like I was going to hit a piñata, I didn't particurly like the way puking felted my throat or the way it looked like a babybird's souper and the only thing that could change that is if my best friend Lem E. P. says yes and "halfbox high". J.C. Penny is near and dear, Lem E. ducks down and lives in the surveilled magaZine ragties (the private-owned CCTV of a fudanshi pans down and then in panorama, uploads the file to his blog and smirks in a shud of a bow)-- layed down. On the wild Nephite range, total rustlers do their war-dance and on the other side of the abatisizied sangar or breastwork, a total aquilifer and aenator fix-up fix up their ties in an electromagnetic accordance. A. Wall sets out for life in westward, this is her way to remember she is alive and this is life, and about a party of sixty-six (66) of the midsection moderates made bugle and charge for the a-to-be-ransacked à-la-Arizona fortifications. Shaws cried ugly in reasons alloted by lottery-- I don' know if you could say there was any honor in it, the lot of the ragged and regging irregulars little-leaped for the larga in the generatrix or the interesected cone and fell face-flat making big puddles of some. The straightmen just jostled in their cotton and led out some vorstellungs this time through a peering wrought of a 'ressentiment' portrait hung right about the oval office through the bow window. Brayed out and all that air of the night, glowworms and total lampyridae, all formed bibelots of sorts. The leper lived in a motel amidst a compound scrapyard, had enough land to be considered a sovereign state, skyline flags of now flattened blue globes atop the adobe scrap hung high with no coughs to be heard, the foreground was harsh and its swallows where the one of a quarantine, a thousand minnows swallowed with no words, this being the very complement, sour one, to the overall picnic of dew and life that was constantly being reborn, sometimes vibrant and alike to a maccaw, immediately outside this over encompassing closed outhouse. Still, remember and recall, no coughs. I scattered myself through the adobe warehouse of thoroughbred irregulars and all seemed distant from the likes of lepers, no life fleeting from their moonholes, and if it did it would certainly not be yellow. Directly at sight was the cheesewax, a can of footsoldiers birthed savagely until times of mobilization, untouched by the lights of civilization, Spaniard or otherwise. Some decided to make arrangements with the state-of-the-art offal company in town by marking their tin brigade barracks with the cantons of their inoffensive hatted mail-boy mascot. It was merely noon and some of the likes of the irregulars decided to leave primitive beef-tallow candles stoked upon copper rods, holding itself brigadier upright straight in the loess only by the prayers and war dances of the townsfolk. I asked to one of the now wandering merchants where their outhouse was if you don't mind me asking and he had one pack cattle with three clockwise growing copper horns. Moo. He stared at me for a sixty-dixty as to even process as I was asking him for directions. Out by the left of the motel. I trawled through the alembicated or more so under-refined trails of entrails, men and women, children alike, prostrated in prayer and sucking on the ground as if expecting nurturing or lactation from this desperate land. The cling-clang of medallions of bouillon cubes, emphasis on clinging, the children especially pausing their sucking to cling upon my working pants like clinging on vines in a past life, these vines now drying off into chaff in the present life, it's as if the flies were the locals of these ranges and the lips and tremors were alien squatters. No shoo-ing, no swatting. I eventually found the outhouse, it didn't specifically feel out, it felt like the center of attraction in these roundabouts, every piece of energy being ebbed from this place-a-round. The clinging was especially to be heard when I made my entrance, I took it to be a customary entry ovation. Bibelots of embered taluses each engraved with copper shrapnel and in the center plaza of the shop were jars branded with the signature offal paperboy maker-mascot, I personally didn't care for one, I've had my daily intake of its smell. I was evidently struck with the idea to sell the leaping leper lucky foot for something of equal value, considering how considerate the footsoldiers would be of this trinket. Less struck but more caressed, moving on. At the reception desk was an unreceptive wild-eyed lady with her teeth seeming decorative like war pikes. At her right, slumped, was a con-boy, fiddling with some cartilage most likely from his last meal. GOING HUNTING WITH RICHFIELD. Total pierogi, as we panhandled our sum, small fauna narcolepcizing itslelf on the plains from the stomps of buffalo:lack of, or the beating of the whole yard alloted finding itself in the exact frequency described here as a lullaby for all the passing convex rabbits and static sooling for the rest of us with more mammalian Detroit manners. After a whole lot of covering ourselves in a sloshing orange can of scent-hider that had a mysterious cowboy on it, we (Richfield, Waples, yo)  agreed on hunting small fauna to not leave our séjour in total empty hand and so we made our successive undulations. Mise-en-scéne and we saw a rabbit with the eyes of a coyote and the perfectly 90° ramus-body intersection and in a wild hesist we let it go through some fear of volatile rabies: our .308 finding a return to sender in a slosh of hydrophobia and over-calibration. Some elk balayed out in the middle of the woods with his head totally jingling in some grandfather clock, we thought it'd be fun to have some live-line bait for some grizzly, let Rich- (he's a rodeo king in some licensed state) luch it out on that mighty fine elk's back, wrangle it out alive with an apple inbetween his two jaws, release him when we've had our fun with the pictures (this is more moral than trout fish and release), a prescribed golf course wasn't going to be any better on this land. A. Wall RSVPs for the gala or ball and opens the Chevy door, her seats (excl. frontseats) are lined and handstitched in light blue satin or linen which goes well with the passing night. Autogynephile social (she's social) hotshot biker-girl A. Wall points as-above to the Nikon DSLR heatCam in an order to lens-in on and pan-in on her sloping cat-eyed sunglasses, metal-lined and sparkly enVogue heatMaps with optional corrective lenses (she occasionally flips those on for it makes her feel like a bookish wonder with a lisp and an infected eyepatch from Claire's). She waves and fans at each of the passing wonders (gargoyles or horribles but not horrible or gargoylic and just totes Angels) of New York revivalist architecture, she clacks the side-door for her exit in a scRRtch past the beep, and stands on-guard for the St. Patrick Cathedral and Alcatraz projector lights of varying mandalas pointed at the front-side of it, this is the venue. At the venue itself, she mingles in with the crowd for about twenty minutes, «Chk chk. What's the jazz, sugarplums,» (Editor's note: a "?" has been omitted for a regular comma or period, it's more of a -- mantra or anthem than a "What's up?") she looks down to her silly knees amplified enSaturation by the digital chandelier to make sure she hasn't peed herself yet and notices truly random or permutated-in-set bruises sent from across the country by Acme quadruple agent Carmen Sandiego in Acme H.Q., San Fran (inflicted using delayed and delated long-travel telegraphic matrique police baton), and winces in a snicker or chide. D--, I've taken to the high life. A great dealing and a great doing. An accord of high society about, 5 extra minutes of sleep--a shindig on the rapid eye movement, turned the whole lot into a young filly. -- I have that whole continuous inkject system my girl has been ticking me off into the tibulary for/against. That'd be just fa-boob if we do a shaking of hands like those municipality mauls/aldermen, faxing of that and a return of that. Reports y'wanted of. Before offtime. Before coffee-leave. Cross all my dials, leave those numbers at your eyes.**inscribed** 'NEVER DIE ON THE JOB'. I tell you, these new-comes still have that sparkle in their eyes. I showed that meufmama how that new coffee machine swirled and swirled and she told me they never had one of those in her-- adobe concord in the Phillipines. Next; I showed her how those new RFID plastik jives worked through my 60%40% polyester-nylon and she told me that would get me hanged in her-- adobe concord in the Phillipines. Whatever lo-ess dried off onto our brows. (now we're so convexed and screwed). I got o-so dreamy at the looks of those dialers, they don't blare at ya. Kritch-killers is what the lot of them are. Kritches are the *other* red ones. The only autofanfare that gets me wet nowadays are the ones daguerrotyped in Italian, "Yippie-yay-posciamo-lot-t-aray~yay". The only dolls that jive it on and give me the hots --I'd have to find at that adobe accord in the Phillipines.--Some area right over the east end of the grid, emulsified and reformed and kicked some traffic cone by out the --concrete guys--' jobsite in some total wick, that dog had no business running away, what would he tell? "I'm panzified! I've turned sissy, it's great for me." as the idiot who was stringed into this whole jig out of pure sedulous voluntaria raped me along the robot-cop dialysis machines that spitroasted me with I think some nuAge nu-tek rebarbeamrod strapons. Thru catatonic telemetry, Central Operating Turbines outpast in some ballerina rotation, 144.27 MHz-side Venutian angels (they had spent their fair séjour out by Venice thru Verona for they thought the similarity was funny, patterns and recognitions and stuff) directed their area of concentration out into Zebulon. Police magnets totally covered in liquid light sucked at the souvenir store out by Zebulon, three of the Venus angels had pasted rotomatic near-sound saliva (the only amiasmic secretive of the global ur-body) onto the telephone line in some "A-- was here", total grin. He turned out back scrolling by the street looking for where that darned dog went but there was no bread or blood trail to lead him out on to top of the tippy totem --friendwise-- (but they were all he had) "G-d is a laddersman by Tennessee, that's what they call the Holy See (for the folks at home), get your OSHA-10 by the end of the year, that ladder is for climbing to Heaven," so he crawled out trying to sniff one out (K9 evidence) --the world was upside down--.  (he saw it on live TV., it's kewl,.;/), and P. Fixit followed through the sill with some virgin horror at what they were about to do. ENTER. The Venus angels were responsible for all radiotelecommunication and were some aenids of the passed Low Explosive Low Orbit Cannon project (L.E.L.O.C., Zapper, coloquially), they spent most of their time indoors, drowning in ultraviolet darkrooms, getting their fingers all wet and meddled in Positive: such was used for developing near-polaroid counterfeit money. -- They were essentially mill-of the-run lazedog pair of diplomats-- permutate some frequency ranges so the folks at home (U.N. recognized countries all covered) could catch the latest episode of Sara Sidle (.III) Doings. The main anticipation of the L.E.L.O.C system was nuRevivalist fallownization of unfertile land through some song and dance of ionization, its lethal papa had gone on bye when ethical and ethnical antitheses came running through the press, Sci-Fi writer James V.D. I.O. Felba had quantized the project thru his own words "psychosomatic telemetry" and crosscountry synchronization in his earliest science fi publication 'The Copper Mill' (1977), 11 years padded and redcarded by D-- when he or his bullimic wife got bored of Sears magazines and he switched to reading his grandpappy's attic collection of copper age Sci-FI, the age of warped-in-thru Martian time demons and redcross herrings of tin and copper capsule sentinels who make a big clack when they move. The petrolkin laughed just like their mothers. "I'd hate to see a fine one like him go down savagely, say what you release him for this dismembered foot I found." The petrolkin revved themselves up. "What're we gone do with that? 'Used up a good part of what wus supposed to get us to our destination."(they enjoyed the chase, they chased the gigolo from his motel.) The room was a whistle, the doors were the maracas, very much needed in this band of ours. The snares fortunately not being a snake's. One thousand incubations and reservations for a soon-to-be dew were made. Our life rose like the pilgrims and plateaud like the plains, one being more lively than the rest of us, in a upstate heckler way. Tried to make a fuss about his spurs, said they'd look real good with everyone licking them clockwise. Counterclockwise is my suggestion. Quipped the now galvinized steel-handed gigolo. The upstate nuisance didn't like this gig at all, kept trying to make this plateau something a lot more like the ones in Ari-zone, an arid zone, a neologism of a timezone. I raised my hand first, that's the saloon style, snapped at his ears, tried to wake him up like he got a nice night session with clairvoyance. He didn't appreciate it one bit, he was moving but his breaths were dull, I tried to stop this wheezing, an nice oil change for the night. This one was different, he spat out his tongue and left my face looking like a spittoon. The gigolo lifted himself and I lifted my chaps. The lavender boy struck him with what he had left of his hands, didn't do much so he left his thumbs in a place he seemed fit, left the dullard stranded like a bull at the fire station. He fell and rested like a horseshoe. You'd be expecting us to head for the troughs, but we laughed it off, once again like friends. <---This part of the report was written by Applejack. Some orthodo-ntist/x belle juive leaned on the counter of a coulissade and cul de sac round the 'L' winchpipes and all those rusty windows with some solemn regards; 'terveisin my love'. She kepped going up and down the avenue like she desperately needed her feet to wake up, and it's only after rounded 40 minutes that some hotrod welded itself onto the concrete and the she boarded. 0% tint, some hotshot who swept up all the tickets at the arcade and otherwise seemingly seemed au chomage. Turned on the TV for the usual honkytonk-- weathergirl I looked better than, dollar store stickup at 1326 hours. Cagoula-'baklava' I awkwardly picked up at the Turk's business, and a digital watch set 15 minutes early (I like to be in a constant state of hurry), thanks. Smash and grab would've been fun with him but he had to score, I don't know how that thinly scalped woman hasn't given him some novelty discount for his constant feetkissing and the sweeping of their surplus. Red grids upon red grids, maybe he gave me the cheap stuff when he saw me utter with confusion. I think so much about this, I'm outlawing myself, going full on Bohemian, slap the clerk, take off my boyshorts and show off my landing strip, middle finger is still too vulgar. Did you know I met Texas Pete, he's a lot cuter than in the composite sketches, and the parties of the whole wild cannery boys (half of them were wholesale Afrikaners while the rest of the lot were ex-cops from Zimbabwe) all buzzed in a levy-heavy non-Lockheed, an MBB/BK 117 painted disruptive dress (mallard green). The Boers surveyed the uitvalgrond allwhile being dispatched halfcocked out of the jettison and jetty, having some cigar-smoking look and kiss, the ex-beat cops looked worried about their social status after it had just come to chatty town that more than one branding of beer had purportedly found itself in their bin, what's next? Telling the whole now promoted tinship about finding yourself purportedly pozzed out while on tour from a non-pozz princess without an SRY sequence on your seventh (7th) tour? Some loud buzzards did their pirouettes and the boys were ready to join them (after a seminal check of the engines). The Boers jumped out first with this aired-out idea of grandiose and the ex-cops felt their fabric totally murmuring second, falling totally flatface would be a total humiliation, second humiliation tally after being found to drink Carlisle Black Label, but they all tumbled themselves thin on the range. They could barely see eachother out by the total nigredo of the whole lot and out by the succeeding minute, I found myself trying to distance myself from the whole idea 'desert hare', a total nomadplasmosis that always prevails no matter the consecutive cycling and zeroing of the objects anorth. Half of the Boers headed for this towering 360° post while the 3/4ths of the company rose from the dunes in a contained folly, exciting themselves uphill in a twain. Two of the ex-beat cops from Zimbabwe (or of) strung at the ladder, the whole tower was tented with some tipi gable, and they took out their proximity-infrared (PI) foxgoggles and saw how its hue blurred out in an exhale from time to time, and attached it in a click to their green mesh right ontop of their brazenly blue (light blue) headgear. Assembled some sort of skinny and upholstered fully carboncut rifle, uptangoed sight system, fully entranced with an automatic targetting and procedure system., and you let out the siderail in a flick for that integrated ectothermal sight (same style as those Lewis machine guns). I was just happy I had the night to myself,  enough patches arid to floss it out, this part of the report was written by a carnivore hare. The decidedly bossing Boer raked up the tower and did some hand signal for one of the ex-cops to head over by atleast a yard or two out back by the range, "Tonight is a great night," she said. The gang of bikers headed for Denny's out by the interstate, the aenid followed through and the rest of the lot made their way in an upsidedown 'V' formation. They had their way and had the most mustachioed a "she", they said. Some sort of old hypnotic Chinese pendulum trick that culled residue from their penitentiary time they learned outback, Michigan at the eastpoint, a magick and electrohypnosis fair. It was mostly some great opportunity for less-known rabbit-in-the-hat types but there was this wish-dispensary, 'Madame Nina Apple', some strung out Jackson-5 bleached out and surgerized animatronic. The yellowrot tickets came out of her ears like some akimbo dumbo-slots, she was entirely enclosed encase in a resin box but some idiot found a way to gash his cigarette out on her chest. Inflatable bulls -- symbols of fertility -- stood wavering like gargoyles or horribles, two symmetric bloodhounds, Jera and Maury Texan-handwrestled at the center of two tables they had asked to push together, prize was kissing Jill (the mustachioed feller), right on her desperada mustache, fixed hap-haz like it was some Party City stick-on. "Do you know who I am?" Nina P. Apple asked. "Sure, Slightly Recumbent Chastised Bull, bubba." Springs and more yellow tickets sprung out her nose that time, Jill giggled 'cause she was allowed to. I totally forwent the gifle and the divine exposure (don't you even just call me 'decent'-looking) and grit out like some boîte-banshee all my week's postalgoing at her for whatever change and more she had. She looked out like some sad fox with her emergency children being already rung out for downstarirs ---> 'alarm will sound', and all the camelback of having some lowbrow for congress. Down by the CERN underground passby in Zurich, R-- and I spilled over their metro system, commute system of high-ion megawatt trawlers powered by participe-passé entropizers and stricks of digital angels. The whole postsecondary boarding school-style system had its share of a longplot of 100 acres of camping ground, dearest of CERNers had a municipality of their own bidding while the most Ike-Funder could give us is a leaving U.N.I.C.E.F.-style recreational white tentground on samaritan land ("All proceeds go to Doctors without Borders, and sickly deskjockeys at DARPA"). Like Canterlot to Ponyville, Ponyville is Equestria within Equestria. My good friend K-- told me in a big week-end planner that she'd get to living true to the Schtroumpf village but I thought she was talking about Aix-En-Provence. All she could get to on a good day fun-wise was working out a Young-Adult novel living out everyday she lived if she was more of a homecoming queen type (whatever the French equivalent is, Baccalauréat Bitch) and less of a microwaved mom. The overencompassing liasion for the layed land was a Spanish ur-conquistador style with elements of Swiss jockey, truly random (usual city protocol is permutation thru sets) livened busstops and flipped 'L' leg-rests, all kissed by jaunatre lights each representing in kinematics a different star (my favorite: WR-46) in the way. We couldn't make much of the night and skylarking has its blaising when opt-out is just 'get out of jail', passed on by the extremities, the entire lot had a dome and curved and slant bowl system structure, architects (like much all) were big fans of snowboarding, and artificial snow even makes its way when the folie of swanging candy canes and the Christmas market props were brought out for all to sive, jingling out of some loving ghost girls who only reply to the doble "Love of life, L.O.L., total angel princess festive girl" included (syntax in a-priori name call -- statement standard form). He was laying on some paintcans right as I heard the last sooling of the vertical machine 'elevator', I felt this need to kiss him like a sick dog would and I was desperately praying for him to have some place to go back after all of 'this', he looked like a sleeping angel with his modest choircut getting shoulder-drooping from the restless revolutions of the moon breathing out more breaths just because she knows the number of eyes on her grows everyday, exponentially with no regards to none, a 'true' example of a dinganzicht-- SDF-semblance so unwonted. I didn't want to wake him up or kiss him in a wake, that was what a sick but cute dog would do. I just laid resting on his bideltic chest and by in tandem also the mostly clean slate of our state of the art imaginist-revivalist New York apartment while the furroughed brow of the night received and rimfired. Some of the passby butchy boys (Armadillidiidae) kind of panhandled or hathandled eachother in some collect like some renumeration at Catholique mass, and some anthropods at this club that was halfway through the caveats for becoming a gay club and still met the OSHA for newlybeds and prolific lovers who wanted to be newlywedded. At the centermass right here, S-- and A--, some German integrationists (both Boston-born) who worked on a system of mass interpreter for Dassault Systèmes under the great guise of recursive Swiss pseudo-random name generators (PRNGs) [$\mathbf{x}_0; \mathbf{x}_1; \mathbf{x}_2; ...] both learned for the first time entrées werer the main course. They were on standby for some tarmac-roots operation to overflow the whole quarry /and/or/ on some paid sick leave taken in consideration for total fair cow that the Babylonian Towers of Computer-Aided Design (CAD) was round 2000 (non-rounded and non-truncated), and they just sat there eavesdropping on the concretely more relaxing musings of others on boyfriends they found out at the last minute were confirmed bachelors (the less you think, the better). After some fair consideration that others were living elementary and menial-manual lives and they were living la vie and not das Leben or whatever motor sputterings  semanticize themselves in a straight-forward translation for 'the life'. When the mesero-mesera was finally to come, A-- derobed a pen from the lined  contrastingly leather jacket he was wearing for the toast (LEATHER, LEATHER, LEATHER, LEATHER, - - - - - - - (100% cotton seam), LEATHER, LEATHER, LEATHER, LEATHER),  it's only now they realized they haven't toasted yet and it's only now that S-- lowered her seeming-saluting hand that'd grab a waiter's attention. To... a life of rest and health! (Bis). And it's now that S-- raised her hand in atttention for the waitress (Hi, my name is... Monica. And, I will be taking care of you this evening), S-- was in total PLS (Position Latérale de Sécurité) for the last time she ever received any care in the evenings by a girl who was serious not out of chewing gum or side of her cheek was either never or when her father died and she attended this gymnasium boarding school who implied this new system of 'allo-parenting' they had called it under the Hancock of her J.-- Troufl. Now and always I had some total rigor but the absolute beating of the sun through the mosaic rectangle (most likely the same patent used for the ventillation-guised grenade foxholes and transmission) totally kerouaked and croaked me out of my morning rise & moan like some ornate dagger. In riposte to the square of the missuses with DeGaulle frowns, I laid my hands flat sauna-like on the pricking unsanded wood of my ambassador single-file bed and didn't care for what whacking via some sanded racket I was going to receive. If they hit me with whathever leather horse I'd just lay unfiled like ceramics and a bust, laying and dreaming of real horses and the wandering hair I'd be waved in a hug I'd be welcomed with. Some wild-haired girl who was the very same girl that dressed her hair in the likes of some grassbound boy --and not the likes of the adminastrating post-menopausals with their iron paddles of PTA smiles-- would join me in my lay like a warm crescent and accord: 'comprendo'. Viz. I was more than alright with receiving the beat and crack of generations of a lifetime, having my whole skin riddled in blues and battereds, my hair being hung in a hangman as a coven would "C'est pas terrible....", and my eyelids barely opening themselves in a wake for I so wanted her to feel like she had something to take care of (all she does is file paper in Munich) and the batter realizing how long ways she had to go to even compete with Rogers Hornsby (Batting average: .358; Hits: 2,930; Home Runs: 301; RBIs: 1584). This is the nature of things, the telemetric conversions of kayfbal dots and digs at the whole --, convert this to the nuSphere (my deeping time leaves it to be ever-negative, just the current propositon) In the nightlife was I was able to take the part in constituents augmented and not naturally written in candidate, and he rose for the tapping of random extremities by some either miniscule insects in this world and on our floor and in this room eating at my dead cells for luncheon and fastbreak.  Digital stalkers had grown eased-off and stopped caring about being seen out by the metro areas, they'd sit on your cable news broadcast not even hiding their antennas that were still shellshocked from city wars, a series of gang wars exemplified by their use of technospiritual: spiritual(lit candles allwhilst played MP3 files with known EMF radiations) and techno(loudspeaker mindprobe in variations) warfare. All of the titubating crew were in-gang grossly agnostic but found their place in hyperPornography religious by write-in in the topological examination and creation of sheer will --they drew Stars of David in semantics, no relation-- and ascetics in all fairness and stood their ground to technospiritual warfare in abandonned siamese twinship, in SHTF-timing the Nutrikid Act hadn' been signed, some of the sorts outlawing the sale of T.V. dinners deemed not nutritionally worthy by the ghosts of the FDR administration. Some hothitters of T.V. dinery (Kolfax, Busch-Light, Frito-Lay, Hasbro) took to adding a cuplet of apple sauce while others took it from the back and rough and decided to layover a splinter adhocular (at first thought, on-line report) division allinthru U.N.I.C.E.F-commended, tough rooster mince (the whole likes promoted by Meaty Popeye), apriori applesticks and Adibou Educational Skill (collaborative with Hasbro) arithmotherapy sets and G.I cuts and molds of blueborne medical angels sans-frontières with some phantom rigamortis of invisible mindrifles sold in tintrays out from 06:00 to 15:30. Mobilization and training were grounded in vacantly rented 'rage rooms' of replicae of pasttime offices deemed pelgrinas of outpassed imagined offices (DMV kids some). Lem E. P. fixed up symbols and 'things' he thought were funny ('YR LAND IS MY LAND' inscribed underself the Kappa logo, 'EAT MY DUST', inscribed underheld a cartoon 'Marxian' with his mindprobebeam and sickle) that he semi-pretended (sheer will synchronization) out of pure acquiescence to make out from the TV blabber and zilch (digital divination, he called it), he left 'Psikotoll by Gorguts' playing, some bootleg he picked up from the Turk -- they called him-- sometime earlier the week. The three Daltons (-1) finally came thru in full group, they spent the first twenty minutes staring at eachother waiting for that notice, "New earrings?" Lem had the courage to do his expected and made his move at the sickly yellowlit screen, Payton Hackman (his New Hampshire girlfriend who started the likes of the Age of Enlightenment thru 'Megan Locke', Ponyland F.F.) brought a CD of 'Traces of Death III', "That's cool."+"Dying and death is cool.", N.H. added. They took turns downloading on-line pornography on the family computer "Bewbs and vaginas are cool. https://dancyfrancy.funny.org/, a comedy site with a twist, ex-NSA programmer had found a way to make the cursor arrow some kind of post-it note 'KICK ME, PLZ', it hosted videogrisms of skate fails, a choreography of the stick had him doing flips one hundred times plus, each ending with him falling down along his pants, it included no timelog but you could tell which was recorded earlier for his shins got progressively more battered and blue. Toxic sludge (2-4-5-Trioxin from Ithicä) spilled over small towns out by southside New York State and into the delis, seen hovering over the gables was a Make-A-Wish zeppelin, its blackbox was found carrying thirteen seasons worth of bloopers from your favorite shows and teleNovels in Hollyweird and crude tar-men conskite. (Cy)-D-(-Fect)Dog (---> D-Dog) was the third wheel and just stood there playing with the window shutters and occassionally laughing behind their two pairs-a shoulders when those pants fell off (boom sound) "Explosions and boxers and briefs are cool." https://viginursery.net/, a crowdran enclive of paranoramic digital photography of stillbe-s of CCT.V. footage you could submit at viginurse@hotmail.org, the upkept imgs still had that oblique bluelight dash, you had to forgive them they had to be I. taken on-the-spot by a II. graveyard nightguardsman. P. Hacker took the mousedrag from Lem E.-- and it was the first time his hand was held by her sanded-out ghost smoothness and the first time he had ever touched a microbiorganism (CSI agents level III. may use such for evidence) of something else but the back of his head for suretalk, she opened DeliMail, the free eMail service without pop-ups and enclosed in embed attach those pictures of (50) somehow prolapsed labias she had downloaded throughout the night. By the time the second El Cordobés scene came, he in a stutter remembered the organic compact discures and monadic flash drives through the orange seal he kept laterally in the fridge, he didn't know which to do for the love calculator website (divination posteriori) only extends its arms in a loving hug to an extent and just called his girlfriend up to pîck and choose, "Thalidomide, that's ke-wl, that's what they use to create indigo babies, I fetched that up like a total sniffing dog up on https://jvdc.gov/, total squares on the surfacedesk but what the storekempt keeper can't tell you's-there's this hidden parabola layer, onionskin, enter /spudnik out by the end of that hash and (boom), you're a total deeptruth spelunker." The two seated still on that gondola, L-- was refreshing the https://viginursery.net/ domain, waiting for some big text entry "INTERNAUT JILLYJAM@HOTMAIL.ORG-- YOU'VE TURNED ME INTO A LATENT HOMOSEXUAL, I HAVE A DEEP FEAR OF WOMEN AND THEIR BOOBS AND VAGINAS &ALL THOSE THINGS BECAUSE OF U. HOPE UR HAPPY. NO I DONT. rot in hell." A series of unmuzzled and mustard yellow feral thalycines and woodland fox transversed through the computer screen into their retinas. She rentoutina reach for a hypertension machine (1/3rd of vitals, if you ask he) "Vampires are hot." And she handed it off to her boyfriend to ease it off for their new foundingfather hancocked administration of thalidomide compact drives, hit three megabytes of thalidomide in a frezy and in some folly out onto her gradmammy's heirloomed brass spoon from her neck-lace and heated it ('mide) up^on the stovetop, handed it off to him in a dozey. "What are you? Scared you're gonna need CRISPr to make your kid not look like the Toxic Avenger?" 107/24: and he was totally maced out by spiked-up rotating geometric monsters in his bloodstream, injected now. He jittered in some intervention and ectoplasm came out of his nose in a sameframe look meaning the translucent pus came out of his sinuses in some altered-state compressed rasterization of a heatsink vigipoltergeist heatmap digighost spit fountain (more like those chocolate fountains on TGI night than Manneken'Piss -- type). His head dropped down to the family keyboard around the numpad, totally soaked in this metal paste and data conduit: digiplasm, P-- Hacker just pushed his head over and dragged at the keys with her graphic tee (it's a smiling face, it's minimalism), looked down in a scully when the digiplasm had simply transfered like semi-crystalized ghost mucus its lot from the keys (now picked off the board) to her rhinestone tee and had turned half the smiling graphic into a frown. Lens-killers created new instances of digital CCT.V. angels, like dead pixels updated on the index page into some sick joke, fool me once, shame on you, disturb my peace and I'll head out by http://multicoppd.com/. The sirens were totally blared out and enclosed my wavering margarita tulip fan, I was holding in my arms like some dogwet housefire, dogwet because of the firemen that had their fun spraying me with the hydrant hose. Part-time worktime dominonatrix and local literacy-promoter E-- Nought hugged in some seran wrap, I was binded by chain and link now, the Fi-- sequence integrated all my clicks and boops like forex xchange and XXX, when the Dumb Sum Baby asks me "1+2+3+...", I say "How high?" The traveling circus had their heed out on by in a trailer 'ttached to a great pump of a citren truck, FiFi, ZoZo, and KeKe were the main stars of the whole lot. ZoZo was a man who lost it all out at the crap tables, had his pupils dilated through some wire/gauze/stitch system that was constantly pumping Amazonian toad spirits and unkempt and saline water spirits into his injectionstream, he constantly had a supply of a look of some halfdozed and halfdozer stare, he could only communicate by moving his lip from side to side in a total saccade but regarded himself as some sort of high priest. When people gave him a weird look, he flossed at his eyes and lip in a menace, couldn't spit so he jumped up and down with his fingers plugging his ears. "	...hng."  FiFi had a monkey strapped to her head, didn't need velcro or a straightjacket, that monkey was eagerly living through her hair, a total cute symbiosis like that bird and that hippo, eating at the lice that made her tangled scalp look like a waterfall of some hyper.GIF file of a chitin tarmac of pupal aphid jostlers. KeKe was the straightforward one, didn't need some ritualistic timefair monkeypaw stitchup and siamization, she just had a slight lisp and served as the tourist guide for all the enpassers. "How old is that monkey now?" "Sisty Sree. Jay-kay. Eight years simplewise." "Do you do kid's birthdays?" "Only if they're not used to coal and charcoal." "Thanks." "Yo're welcs." That total jock gave me a kiss on the cheek and dropped down to give me the princess tribunal, he giggled after he kissed my hand and at that time I realized he was just some Foreign Space Agency/(Space Agents Without Borders) washup and not the total josser I was praying for, sawbing. I had strum out my evenings for those two total idiots I had to babysit, one can't talk and when in need for the loo grabs at my chinos in some sob, the other just stinks out the whole day, that monkey of hers never makes his leave and has undeveloped both-shorter-than legs for the only step he took was for a birthday out by some county, he spinned with his hands ensconced by hers like they were Texas-two stepping into the night. Night-time hitchhiking killer and D.H.M.O. junkie J.J. Wheeler stands perpendicular to the Joshua trees and pretends to 'do chew', does cartwheels while listening to that one montage music from Rocky III. and sledges his hamstrings by pretending to be Zen by pretending to start a lawnmower, ends with his fist in the air, «Boo-yah.» Circus biz is jakes for ZoZo, FiFi, (I'm having N.D.A. issues), tonights show: The Zola gigolo-gymnast family and the anthill of acrobats from Ecuador, each landingstripped with their respective elongated jockstraps or leotards showing off the piece of piling pilosity that runs its course, and biz jets expose their landing gear. BEEP BEEP. Genoa dies a second time, this time no new sedevantice of languages («How many times does English (American) go into Spanish (Spain)?»), just a horde of simplexed (molten and rearranged und mosaïc) simplefaced Afghani guerrillas were co-lined into the Kandahar giant, spread thick and thin into a golem tartine, currently in Pinto Cave. This is the nature of extropous thamaturgy, the straight arrow club tells Max, from Switzerland to return to his true roots as a canaanite and a roving clive of mud of Lehi, you start putting nannycams on his big sludge of a forehead (replaced in double A batteries, the same size as your bra) and take to breastfeeding him intramuscular. Good news is lately he's stabilized to a good 15 ng/dL dihydrotestosterone, a few more Fourier shifts and reflections and he might grow more than a patchy brow. Elaine F., the tennis shoe mom posts to https://toserve-mom.com/ (Arch-Arch-Anges-Sans-Frontières, not to be confused with http://toserveman.com/html). Macros, macros, macros. Thank you in advance, hello, hey hola they say (amigos) :-). My Max has been doing well homeschooled, and I can't lie... I'm digging this mom thing. Makes me feel like a super-mom, like a total macromanagining micro-ur wonder, almost made me miss UMD L.O.L. Without the essays and the prof's bad attempt at comparing Yeats and Keats to leet-speak. Gee. This is the winter of our discount tent, sha-la-la when Max forgets what Bingo's name is (O). Bathing clay angels is usually a big No-no, I know, I know. Like a seahorse sponged out into vices instead of a little luffa. --Betaine anhydrous (or the namebrand equiv) has been working well for dummy but Max (who is NOT a dummy) is a total pest, having those recommended HeatCams has been disgusting me. If you're a mom and you're on here... need say less. It's like Hell's Kitchen or that other thing with my sug-- Ramsay when he brings out the U.V. cams and... Yeah. Sups and macs and sups and macs, send, send, SEND THEM TO ME! Recommend, amigos :P. Ta-ta. S-- and A-- group up with their alta mates (each graduated Bird-Holstein Hoc in Swiss and all came to work for Dassault) tuned in to the police scanners and were met with heavy high-band interference from the Zeta-Zig ship (Owner: Marvin the Martian), each frenzy in pseudo-random nag and dance. «Zilcht and zip! Oh, I can't bother. See you later, "alligators". » Roger Rabbit gets framed thrice en row by the conspiring CERN, and Marvin the Martian gets lousy at the idea of the Baccalauréat Bitches having a say-so in anythin and lobotomizes them partially with his Acme pinwheel-delayed 75mm zeta hand-gun. J.J. Wheeler finds the white-worn Cambia van and collaborates with (?), his RDV list runs wild and he heads off to http://toserveman.com/html -- a gay hookup site for consensual cannibals--. J.J. finds his swinger match, Ellis K. (V-, the frontman and leader of the boyband 'Tous Ensemble'), and they wander off into the national park and tell eachother ghost stories and all the likes, J.J. pointing the flashlight up his sinuses in a BOO! Ellis 'V-' K. -- frontman and leader of the boyband 'Tous Ensemble'-- pokes at Wheeler's thighs and runs his fingers across the rough fields of his hairy legs and shows him how to tie his shoe-lace into a pentagram. They (J.J. Wheeler --the D.H.M.O junkie and hitch-hiking killer--, Ellis 'V-' K. -- frontman and leader of the boyband 'Tous Ensemble'--) get bored -- and in a total whine and pant, start fulfilling the original plan. Ellis saws and dags at his left index and places the severed --oddly long and mysterious like Hidalgo-- into Wheeler's mouth and they recreate the one-hundrend-and-one Dalmatians scene with their tending 19 other fingers. V- K. notices in frenzy how similar Wheeler looks to a German Shepherd and Wheeler does the same -- to a Billy scenthound. A few zilches and channels erupt out of high-lowband interference from Venutian angels and police scans, in a 10-42-10-25-10-24-10-24 (not my bowling handicap), Ellis falls asleep on Wheeler's chest, three severed nubs total slipping themselves out on his grey fleece. Back at the Fitz household and across the NYSTA Zone-3 I-90 Exit 29 (Fort Plain) to Exit 45 (Victor), the moon and rotary setlights coalesce into one big puddle while goodcopbadcop duo Sherman and Springer cock their 9mms in the frontseats of a police cruiser and stake-it-out. Springer sidebars the last-to-second window and forwards Sherman with hand signals that ranged from «Stay put.»--->«Wipe your nose.» They peer thru the catholique mosaïc our dear friend Fitz installed as windows and call at the low contrast/saturation and follow thru with their escalation, amateur camgirl. Fitz stays chopped and anteaten and pangolinrolled at the floor while the spined odesha semi-comformist (ex-Max) crosses out in crayola her faxes and gets shot enfilade by goodcopbadcop duo Springer and Sherman. He (?) remains montionless on the floor and slowly calcinates and petrifies, the yellow blinks of his glaucs leaving his pup-s, meanwhile G-Unit Kenny, H-man, Pizzabomb (the remainder of MOD%'Tous Ensemble') get catfished by tar-men. Eliseos v. Estados Unidos by Nancy D. Hollister/la cordogitana y su consolidado total del jolgorio/Sistemo de logar sin ayuda, pues ya no./Robandó (ciego) a los paisanos en sus silibidos de ya/"En eso, discal y disco laser"/(VHS-C)/"Dasela, relajate, dasela a tu potro!"/Mi red neural (cama de flores) era sibilante sin hembra y caballo/y los angelicos han dicho/--Echarla para la caldera/(burbujeando en jacarandas)/Virgentud total ademas se tamableó los scripts y pergaminos--/Me abrazó a mi frío en rebosa/SCRTCHHH! (facturas)./Eliseos v. Estados Unidos/Tu novio serafin te da un gran beso	/Eliseos v. Estados Unidos by Nancy D. Hollister.
merry yaoimas ~