A Pointed Skeletal 27 to the Power of 135

Shaking hands. Now there is a projectable retinal image suitable for the implantation into one’s mind befitting the not so unique concept that such a scenario may conjure up into the formative analysis and picturesque representation that those two words – shaking hands – do, quite possibly more often than not misleadingly run astray the cognitive association picked rightly, or is it hemispherically left up to the perception of a linearly flatlined strung out one and done is the true encapsulating atmospheric peer pressure undoubtedly clenching a social situation meeting within the bounds of novel introductions; formative givings of an elapsed separation forthright in valued continuance; or quite possibly the shoring up of the necessities of structured negotiation mutually valued to the acceptance of the lot entirety? Brought forth rightly by those unaccustomed to bowing down.

Wow, that might very well have been some serious analytical philosophical dimensional pondering. Or possibly a left over helical hangover from a dripping dose of linguistically surreptitious delving into spacetime continuance. Come to think of it, such and such is one and the same, no? Either way, you only have to spend a few minutes with me every week. I am locked into the dungeonous depths of tumbled key dissociation. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, giving you some minutes of my varying degrees so brought forth hourly.

Shaking hands. Again go, we do. A dressing of that pickling is in no way rad-ish. Certainly wisdom would dictate a tossing of that salad. A daily listening to that hop sing and granary acquire concentration is but a not so sweet blaring by volume tune of sirens maroon, where high and dry is but those fruitless, uprooted, and deserted trembling palms presently facing the leaving shadow. A concentration consumptive in nature to the nonfunctioning spirit withdrawal of a shelved existence. The time to shine never has nor will be. Will one whether the storm? Swimmingly come to grasp that steadiness and dredge the depths of that port? Stumbled knuckles are a clear indication.

So far so good. And after all that desiccate dissemination this “author” would highly recommend that one goes right out and gets themselves A Ass Pocket of Whiskey, as it is imperative in order to Shake ‘Em on Down with a southern sharecropping side-Burn Missis’sippin creation. Besides, how else will one find out what Tojo Told Hitler? Hail Burnside!

Through and through there is but another hand shaking to do. A system nervously mapped out, one’s minor but major non-handily earthshakingly grasping tremors begin to fissure onwards one’s existence, stiffly speaking in strenuous details, a balancing actionable of deteriorating cognition, slowly dependent upon independency past make shifting a gear down into neutrally following, stalled by way of incomplete roadmaps leading to idiopathically servicing the motor system. Eventual parking in Parkinson’s lot. A metered existence of spatial violation. Welcome to the auto-wrecker.

Well, seems to me that I managed to tug a handy agitative trifecta into my universal dispersal of hand shaking cognitive deliverance. What concentrative stamina. Hmm, and in bedroom contemplative analogousness comparison, it would be fair to say that I do my best work while alone. Zing! Or not. Question is, will me be rising to the occasion once more before calling it quits? Please, give me a few minutes to rest my head and regain some fluidity.

Why I oughta! You damn S O B!  And to think, people are dumb enough to accept the systemic disgracism and slime-ridden graft that has shamelessly transmogrified into a thoroughly hideously defunct and putrid waste ridden architecture of regression bulging at the threadbare tattered seams with pathological liars, deviant personalities, treasonous scum, moral whores, pusillanimous sociopaths, Crown-nosing Throne Trolls, Globalist whores, self loathing parasites, symbionts of sleaze, and all round waste of atoms befitting way less than a half life. You are pathetic! If I ever see your decrepit scoundrel likeness around here again I am going to tear the highly revised next sheet out of my pitchfork grasping riot act, how dare you leave your trail of slime on my front porch with your demagogic pandering canvass of unartistic annihilation. Get the F@#K off my property Pierre Poilievre! I will hit you so hard that I will knock you right into direct democracy!

Looks like your mind has been expanded with a quadruple dose of synaptic deregulation. A chemical balancing of kilter pleasingly retrieved from the pathless moronic morass of half dimensional linear deferred deliverance of a footing destined to drape a cultural indoctrination curtain over the horse blanket bigtop circus smothering the reason articulated as to why, regardless of the system – when foundational formation lacks wisdom, logic, and common sense, it, from nascency froths into over-teeming idiocy passing as an acceptable baseline of topsy-turvy downside-upness of altogether nothingness.

Ahem. Herr und Frau, we are not done yet. This hand shaking is about imagery, for imagery’s sake. The sake of what will not too far in the future be forsaken by the masses – Globalist government, and the encapsulating, confining, and maligning debauchery of ever creeping confinement, molestation, and murdering of the soul, id, existence, liberty, freedom, fiscal sanity, correct posture, objective variances, basic knowledge, or truthfully, one’s entire being. A being able have to perceived and escaped the confines of mindless entrapment built upon the rapidly approaching pudding liquefaction dispersal event of a few lifetimes magnitude. Meet Hans and the long arm & clasping hand of government – his present is yours, though with greater government motioning to come “For Your Linear Safety.”

Pole Positions

He who laughs last laughs best. Such a statement might lead one to believe that women do not possess a sense of humour. What a joke – a facing of backhanded humerus. A telling sign of the thymes –  a season for all sexes, and genders; 73 might suppose. That is a lot of suppository! There is no room for 5 shaking hands down here. Well – cut & paste, no? Alright fine – Ctrl, Alt, Delete. Or is it shift, command, 4? How awkward – option; time to esc!

Laughing first equates to intimidatory tactics by way of poking fun, excess gloating, or, say, egotistical harpoon by way of directional lampoon, as the old idiom confesses. Where obviously to laugh last is to meet and exceed the expectation and reversed outcome gloatingly expressed by the now egg-faced and effaced pumping-one’s-own-tires flat faced failing of egotistical braggadocio gone awry in evaporative conclusion. Certainly anyone of basic philosophical prowess would come to the universal understanding that laughing first is out of unison with that of natural enlightenment; especially, if, hypothetically, one was playing an MLB 2023 video game with, say, their 8 year old nephew. That would be embarrassing; hypothetically of course.

He who laughs last laughs best? Remember, this is a turn it on its head & spank the barrelled bottom articulated article of bending, warping, twisting, bowing, cragsman relieved earthly universal surmounting of bulging how do you do’s façade effrontery demolition designed to make it rain from whence a cold wind is only known to strictly obliteratingly blow in up-washing crabbily delousing mind meal preparation. If such makes any kind of sense to anyone other than, possibly, myself.

Pudding parade politically correct scoundrels – time to end it here; your “laughs” are broke and misspent misgivings in a virtue signalling vortex of a full on inescapable blackhole cursedness. A play on words; it doth cometh: comedy atop alphabetical formation. A pup, nope.

This is a test of sheltering best. Trust me, you do not want to laugh last here. Sometimes one has to spell it out for the non-receptive, but for most, once the stimuli is given, the countdown to cognitive blast off is certainly worth the wait as you see one’s face ignite. In reality such a test is truly conducive to spoken word, though I will make it work to decent affect.

It is always best to seriously lead into the storyline of however one wants to bring it to likeness. And then work in, in question form about having attended a Native American orgy. To which they will typically reply in kind, no. Yeah, it was fucking intense!

5?…4?…3?…2?…1?…Yeah, in tents. Wigwams and teepees to be more precise.

And there you have it. A grasping concentration on the break of regular fixation.

CR