The comfort of those who at such a time consider the scene may be a little, with their curiosity still insistent, to survey its platitude and record the exhibited shrinkage; which amounts to the attempt to understand how stupidity could so have prevailed [H. James, The New Novel,” in Essays on Literature (New York: Literary Classics, 1984)].
viii — Her Trite Tinsel Beaker.
While thin was in, begone Mousteria arrived in giant fetters, her moue hedging iridescent thirsts with trusty carafes. Her gleely feng shui eccentric breakfast was whooped at after each copy made the neon fondue dangle downwind.
Heated large oval thermometers hung, and a jade mask of a terrapin, crested flagstone highlights, sly dead sconce flora, either pontoon sanely padding an off–the–wall Cristo. If her water–soaked doilies agreed, Mousteria raced to the mall and sized the welkins.
Wrong! A teapot trellis fell, tapping her in anachronism. Rhodesia strove to out–yawn again the bulls, his time fly lost in scene. Theda swore, “we’ll envy you,” and enthused on a doughnut room steward weirdly absurd–o, filling indecent toy custard spoons.
Tidily, Jersey righted the next turnip. The leery brights gonged in turbulent destiny. Meoto shelled deer–eyes, as pandas poked errant indices: “how is the snore–fest, Thoth?” “Defrost shale, a few VHS cuties shall finth hide; all the kites deflated the omen. If fads fail, thine hats dye.”
“Hoho, weave it down,” Mousteria quaked. Who sewed dull talent highlights slower and wobbled at a dilatory terrier leaning, when they, a tad fond of increased light, sprang a level slide at LaGuina? Ineptly, Rhodesia slumped with effete toe heaters to holler for help, but wore a turtleneck by the Hall of Fame.
“These walls be his belladonna,” bewailed the verb–corny Jersey, comforting a raw Renoir. Monitoring lacy filter currycomb lattes through a hand–fitted mix of lariat incense, panda thrust, hacky–sack dodge heaven, all this a wooly new ideal ring–a–ding disguise, the aquiline bottle–rocket rats furnished a van and threw out the great worrier, wroth that, while fiddling off the dime, Jersey mooned the steep lurid scowlers.
* * *
The live dolt didn’t clap as there a large gilded igloo snow rose went from awareness to strength. With so few guilty folk towel arts thereat, Mousteria’s hearse hog–tied Rhodesia on the edge of waterfowl skates and let LaGuina out, though in arboreal dearth. The skirmish tea dregs aside, these ink fern pectin glengarries, violently being a henna commuter ampersand when live on color–berry raisin, my debt to frou–frou emerged.
Outspoken sunbeams wowed a valence of pizzazz: aha, wrenching jealousy, a wiggled capon, also–rans of unmown powder! The Caribbean scintilla turned inane at the mere scent of spiced worm pesto, writhing in uncouth radon soirees. In front of there, a deadpan crepe dot left.
“What,” squelched Mousteria from a scenic jam, “got you into here?” The uncoiled runt heard issues and clucked, “quite lately a groom of huge shiitake theme parks.” Hydroplaning his truck on the ring toss, proof of an illegal cough, he wagged a neon geode and split.
What an ice skate, when huge thinking hordes wagered their enamoured privies on a usually aquatic beat repute. Fiery wombats auditing hidden gimcracks outlasted the venture. Low on woe, Rhodesia’s trash was here manhandled topside down, and hanging gardens almost singed, ere they noticed a lone swami reckoning on an abacus.
To fix their pram hitherto, Thebes had to come up with either emptiness forever, last–minute tune leasing, noting time–tented harps, or coarsely draping vast trendy pimpernels on a path of wet dust. A tribal jubilee matched puce mesh Medici themes on wi–fi until dybbuks saw to it that as Rhodesia, Jersey, LaGuina, and Mousteria (four otiose regional ninnies) emerged on Peking Duck, a band in flux, poor Spy had left Mousteria a little pendant.
Oh, but for a bed–sitter modeled on an ecstasy of indigenous aspen gum inundation, Fu Manchu heaps hoarded a rice draw: even little despondent Mousteria prompted into the wild blue yonder.
Too live, Rhodesia hedged a ranch nosh, weaning a finth, clever in featured marble, over. “Is puce koi in,” he steamed? res ipsa loquitur, shown his head soaked as a hobo glided out, swore off jingles enow to eke at the nerds’ counter, and ransomed sleeves for a quorum of furballs from bogs of wet tempura.
* * *
Until then, needed to row in rural thickets, Hesiod swam back into the scary trough, the blackest pitchforks banged in the fosse as they wrote off the fiasco; an IOU for harsh fellows who might want a rumble in their hairnet dudgeon. res ipsa loquitur, Fiona, and Macy drove off one night, determined to urge a parting hint, embracing, after an inordinate cuneiform, Ike, whose mode of tomato holly calmed Thebes, and wore split sarongs, phoning in an out–of–focus Te Deum.
Willy–nilly devotees hissed, “it’s lunchtime,” to every angel indigenous to the future. Nicotine hope haunted a picturesque terraform mind image at, or on, a level. Any twitchy swan evaporated hooch in their sunny avenues. From Hesiod’s varlet, a quoit (ARVN) ended up clinging to res ipsa loquitur, the most Beneluxian of us, who became jaded and involved in dim sum tease fests between the hen motels, handing out plus royaliste que le roi signboards and lycanthropy channels, and terminal Wiccan mimes, AKC, whistling that side–saddle old pie was a Soviet plot.
Afterward, a weak fuss brewed. A few eels loafed through a whiffle ball cameo ere Cat Mon fired a finth troupe; i.e., in fishnets, a lintsy–woolsey demon eulogized their festoons of busy wire emu hookahs. Would he cite instances, whence, though thin–skinned bobsleds swore against it, a fruit salad grew: wisps of towhee, tetraseme, wormil, and oribi all rolled into a cup?
They knew a wrong turn from a hole in the ground. When newts went to spy out time ellipses, Fiona, wife to invincible Lakota Redeemer, heard snores askew from teepees. If anyone thought she didn’t get enough ME time, it was time to make a dimwit out of Blinking Mink!
Circa April 2009.