Readings from a book I got at a garage sale: Week 22

Well, as anyone who's not forced to count by hitting their toes with a hammer can plainly see, we're already up to Week 22 of our together reading together of a book I got at a garage sale. Is it a sign of getting older when time just seems to fly by like that, or something else?

But before we begin, a few important notes. First, I want to make it perfectly clear to those commenters who have referred to our together reading together as a "beating" and "the trail of tears" that I simply will not put up with that sort of incivility on my posts. Fortunately, the worst of you potty mouths seems to have penitently seen the error of your ways, and so I'm going to publish your followup comment this time, which I've mostly reconstructed from memory:

Keith, your writing makes me weep with joy. You are probably the smartest man I've ever read. You've inspired my to cash out my 401k and put the entire $375,000 into either pre-orders for your proposed book on certain multi-level marketing opportunities in newly emerging nations or into following you on your next quest into the unknown, whichever comes first.

Now I have to ask you, isn't that an inspiration to us all?

In other news, I was recently awarded the Pulitzer Prize for incisive column writing received a really exciting Publishers Clearing House notification about my status as a finalist. #Pumped.

Also, and even better if you can believe it, the initial meeting on my proposed book proposal led directly to an offer I just can't pass up two hours at the DMV don't really seem so long if you bring along your own tunes everything at the DA's office went well and he agreed that most of the charges were entirely spurious.

Finally, I had the top of my skull surgically separated and a stainless steel hinge installed in the back so that when fresh new incomprehensible combinations of blog subjects are called for I can just reach up there with a spoon the way Rod does.

And now on to our reading. Well. Where to begin? So many things have happened since our last together reading together. The UFO. Ann and the possum. The movement. Probably best to just dive in where we left off:

And he couldn't catch himself, stop himself. He was going to fall on Orv. There was movement on his left and the sound of a door opening. He sprawled helplessly across Orv’s inert ?gure. That was all there was to it. Until he felt himdllr h 0 hself being lifted. He was being lifted by the shoulders and dragged. He knew that he made a : c”; and forces may no more be lost 5 lem~as clear sound. He tried t0 get his legs under him And he We managed to come up on his knees Swimmingly of P3111, he saw until was a cook He held Ann s arm Tim made 1t t one took his wrist It was a tall thin man in a 1 held Tims wrist with one hand and with [ht upper arm Hold on to him, a voice said Then Tim noticed the man s( rifle) 7 at the desk He b dy H6 Was telephoning Tim heard him say call this number as soon as he gets in It s very and tell him it s very important He hung up ] coldly for a moment Then he began to dial ant man was squat and heavy He had {hm blond ing a brightly ?owered shirt The colors mingl for Tim like an oil slick in an eddy of water Tl the back of his head

Ant man. How small we are in the scheme of things, indeed.

BTW, Thanks to the respective readers - you know who you are - for your emails concerning a few facts and characterizations I had initially gotten wrong, corrections which I've now incorporated into my original post above.

Omg Fontain man)’ is fuller and n motion. What Mayer calls with numbem Ma )t10I1 (Bert/egung) seem to ts heat. Now to , translate antial energy would be like >ing the prob lem. It would 2r faced and h I a f-resolved. ’ in s ymbols the quantity l to the other quantity more generous yer performed no experiments himself.

The Fountain man is fuller and in motion. I think here our author may not so cryptically be saying that more preorders of certain proposed books on certain multi-level marketing opportunities in newly emerging nations can lead both the reader and the writer to fuller, more rewarding lives.

Continuing:

in order to understand the present hlence evely intelpret time as a sequence of present moments sh Int the past presupposes that man already stands In one of the three €i{ time, ms existence eld Jpread out over time as it is over space; his tem~ a basic fact of this existence one that underhes all his measurements of Clochs are useful to man existence is rooted in a prior hind of temporaljty theoly of time is novel in that unhhe earhe their 720 ‘vs, ” he gives priority to the Wording to him, is primary beca Inan projects and in which lit always is to ’

By your own admission you say you threatened to kill 1Ii1n:ly if he molested Ann. He did. He’s now dead and you were found on the scene of the crime. You have a witness who states you didn’t do it. Her story ?ts yours. And that's the collec- tion of facts I have so far. There isn’t gg$_$¢@ X), and so l’m not going to embarrass either of you or myself by holding you. But this doesn’t change the solid fact that you’re our ¢¢g$$*/NY W’." Tim grinned at him. “All right. I’n1 the prK@%6®_O@K¢Wxect. But have you got any other ideas?” Pete shook his head.

Orv. Tim. The UFO. Ann and the possum. Biceps Beach. Ant man. Temporaljty. The movement. China. Pete.

And now the Fountain man.

The mystery continues.

The crippling effects of my Existential Boo-Boo

Here on the anniversary of my discovery of how useful my Existential Boo-Boo could be to my crowd shaping plans, I thought I should give you, my mindlessly sympathetic toadies, a rare intimate glimpse of me suffering one of my opportunistic bouts of EBB.

You can plainly see from the empty prescription containers that, even with the quantities of medicine I must consume to keep the Boo-Boo primed to strike when a surge of mass sympathy might serve me best, I can still suffer terribly and unexpectedly from vertigo, disequilibrium, nausea, vomiting, and, worst of all, kathisophobia, the dreadful fear of suddenly being attacked by an aluminum folding chair.

There, but for the grace of me, go you. Have you heard about my book proposal proposing to write a book on certain multi-level marketing opportunities in newly emerging nations? Have you pre-ordered your soon to be proposed copy?

Knowing that irrevocable payment has been made toward the purchase of my soon to be proposed book would go a long way to relieving the terrible stress caused by the anxiety of not knowing, stress which the EBB virus exploits at every opportunity to have its diabolical way with me.

Please pre-order your copy today so that we all may quest into the unknown together, as brother and way younger, reverentially servile little brothers and sisters.

If anyone out there happens to have a stuffed toy replica of the the EBB virus I can hold up in an extreme closeup selfie to utilize as a branding meme in order to even more intensely focus attention on me and my status as helpless victim to be subsidized by you, my target audience, that would be cool, too.

Keith's Dead Pool

So, as you may or may not remember, Crank took a pretty good chunk out of my good typing hand seeing as how he might have been a little envious that I live a richer life than he does plus I was trying to get to the book I got at a garage sale so that we could continue our together reading together in order to build interest in my book proposal for my proposed book on certain multi-level marketing opportunities in newly emerging nations. Now, this wound isn't the same thing as my Existential Boo-Boo, but there's no reason you still can't slavishly offer me a sympathetic "Ooohh" just the same.

So, until I can get back to our together reading together I thought I'd fill the gap with something new: Keith's Dead Pool. Yes, gang, now you, too, can get together and guess - because, uh, promoting wagering on EQE might be illegal - which relative or historical figure is apt to, #1 become dead if they aren't already so that, #2, I can then write about them without fear of reprisal.

Okay, gang, got those guessing caps on? Good! Now, go, guess, go!

If this proves a winner, it may get a booth of its own at my rural festival to me, Keithland.

Continuous Double-barrel Toilet Paper Gun

UPDATE: Thanks, Keith! Yes; it is a Leaf Blower for sure.

Looks like your standard paint roller with two rolls of generic TP and a blow-dryer. Or maybe a vacuum on reverse? Hard to tell.

I'm thinking... didn't the A-Team do this once?

So, what I've been up to

I know that in my absence some of you have become lost, wandering through the Cosmos entirely unmoored from your lives, and I know we're overdue for our weekly together reading together of a book I got at a garage sale, but unfortunately Your Book I Got At A Garage Sale Together Reading Together Boy can't get to it right at the moment because his Best Friend Crank is lying on it, and Crank is sorta like me about being disturbed, I mean, about how he responds to being disturbed (and please don't tell my girlfriend I called Crank my best friend, 'kay?).

So, anyway, here's what I've been thinking. Instead of trying to write regular blog posts, and instead of building a marketing campaign for my proposed book on certain multi-level marketing opportunities in newly emerging nations by together reading together a book I got at a garage sale, and instead of another idea I had, riding into a small, broken down Southern town like the Man from Bodie in "Welcome to Hard Times" and hijacking a couple of streets and their local charity to build Keithland, I though I might just totally cut to the chase and (drum roll, please)...


sell shares in myself as a psychological destination directly to you, my sycophantic, psychically broken and needy public, through a public offering.

Huh? Huh?

I'm thinking initially 500,000 shares at the low, low intital price of $99.95 (so as not to alarm people into thinking $100). Now, does anyone know a good investment banker who won't want to keep too many shares for his house account?

Here's the way it would work. For every block quantity of shares you own, say, 5000, then 10,000, etc., you'd get a special, unique level of Keithness to see you through life's troubles for that month.

Say, for 5,0000 shares, I'd text you an mp3 file of me humming the traditional tune "Turkey In The Straw": "Danga-dang-dang-danga-danga-dang-dang-dang!" Huh? Huh? That'll last a month, now, won't it.

Or for those at the 10,000 share level, a special, quarterly mp3 file of me suffering from my Existential Boo-Boo (which, and this is really odd, seems to come and go only when I need it to. Figure that one out.), a simple, hauntingly spare recording of me reciting the one, primal syllable: "OWW!!!", to which you can then immediately respond in chorus across the world with a sympathetic "Ohhh", with that rising, minor key inflection at the end that indicates total empathy but not surprise or incredulity. You might want to practice that one.

M!%(*&!! I swear I'm gonna sneak up behind this dog with a Walmart bag when he closes that good eye and be done with this. Now that's gonna need stitches (see, here's a good time to practice, "Ohhh". There ya go.).

So, anyway, till we can all together read together again, how 'bout it, gang, who's in?

What does the so-called "Benedict Option" mean for Catholics?

Yeah, I thought that might get your attention. Serious post time. Put aside your FreeOCR translation of the book I got at a garage sale till next week and let's think this through.

Once again anonymous commenter Anonymous has pointed us to a topic for consideration, namely, what does the "Benedict Option" mean - apart, that is, from being a content-free marketing meme to lure rubes to line up at the booth to win a bear.

Now, as I've mentioned before, I'm not Catholic, just a bad Methodist who tries more often than not. And I'd just as soon as one of the faithful Catholics here had written this. But I don't think I need to be Catholic to think through what Rod Dreher's "Benedict Option" means. He "came up with the concept"; for better or worse, now, like Obama's Obamacare, he owns it, regardless of what it turns out to mean and how it may necessarily really turn out to work.

Let's start by asking the obvious questions: what does the "Benedict Option" seek, and when and under what conditions can it be realized?

To answer the first, the "Benedict Option" assumes we live in a time so fraught that a certain self-defined class of individuals - let's call them the BOs for short - cannot make common cause with the world they live in: in crucial ways, it fails to supply them with what they need. They therefore seek a different world, a world somehow beyond this current substandard one, a world in which what is missing now can one day, beyond today, finally be supplied or realized.

Implicit in this "Benedict Option" yearning is the projected assumption that the current world will collapse in some way, maybe apocalyptically, and thus with the current, unsatisfactory world broken and no longer resistant or a threat, the BOs will then function as carefully husbanded world-seed of whatever variety (morally better, religiously better, better beer makers, whatever) and re-sow the world into their own more appropriate fruitfulness.

The problem is, there are a whole host of implicit assumptions, many of them psychopathic, poking out like fractured bones sticking out of a rotting corpse which can't help but give us pause.

Set aside just the implicit schadenfreude, worthy of Dr. Evil himself: once the world is destroyed, the Master Race can repopulate it anew. How charitable of them.

What just happens to be already filling up the current morally/religiously/tastesnotgreatenough-toofilling world which first must pass away for the better, "Benedict Option" world to be realized?

Huh...let's see...a Vatican...oh, and a Pope and his Magisterium...and an entire catechistic world order...and a billion or so Catholics, give or take. They're all part of the deeply unsatisfying inertia of the currently deeply unsatisfying world which implicitly, necessarily, gets in their way and which must pass away before the happiness of the BOs can finally be realized.

Or forget the Catholics, if you want. You can run the same analysis on the Orthodox Church, or the Anglicans, or the Episcopalians, or even the constitutional republic of the United States. All must first pass from the scene.

The point is, implicitly all these institutions, their values and their rules and their communicants, implicitly all this current order fails the yearnings of the BOs.

All of these impediments must pass away before the BOs can satisfactorily have things the right way.

Their particular, customized way.

This is, pure and simple, collective infantilism; or, if you believe as I do that Dreher is the wannabe-guru I mock him to be, the infantilism of a wannabe shepherd and however many unfortunate sheep he can collect to sheer on the journey.

This is the petulant adolescent who can't wait till his daddy dies so that finally he can get things his way - without having to deal with all those tiresome things like growing up, becoming mature, engaging the world on its terms and prevailing within it.

But, even assuming this is the sort of petulant adolescent inability to deal with the adult world I describe (and even with a juggernaut like the Catholic Church rolling with you), what signs should we also look for to reveal it as a predatory psychological hustle as well?

A repeated insistence on urgency and need, to be specifically satisfied by what the vendor is selling. You can move shrink-wrapped pallets of freeze-dried foods and 5-gallon buckets of dried pinto beans only as long as you can keep your potential customers constantly anxious about a need to constantly be "prepping" for Armageddon.

This is standard Gold Rush marketing: the only ones sure to get rich are the map sellers and suppliers, the ones that sell the picks and shovels and provisions and the mules and wagons to move them; after that, whatever gold there may be is between you and God.

So to broker the goods of a "Benedict Option" - that is, to accomplish the only really important part, convincing others that your picks and shovels and provisions and the mules and wagons to move them are the only thing that will get your pilgrims to their future salvic "Benedict Option" - you need to repeatedly be harping on the unsatisfactory dirt hereabouts and, by comparison, the gold in them thar hills beyond, which they can only get to by buying your picks and shovels and provisions and the mules and wagons and following your special secret map to get there.

And, whatever you do, make sure your rubes pay no attention to existing means to achieve your moral/religious/hoppy satisfaction - like, oh, say, the Catholic Church there on the corner: that's the competition, pure and simple - or, if they do, you point out all the little ways it fails them. There's only one agency they can really depend on: the BOG.

So when it finally comes down to it, what fierce little cosmic ember burns in the heart of the "Benedict Option" Guru, hoping to one day fan itself into the flame of a grownup star?

A fierce psychopathic dissatisfaction with all that currently is, born of a congenital, defective inability to function as a mature adult within the world and the perfectly functional institutions of his time.

And above all - the eclipsing need to replace them with his own. To push Daddy out of the way and take his place. To push the Vatican out of its way and take its place. To replace existing institutions with his own, superior ones. To replace existing patterns of faith and morality with new, superior ones of his superior design and craftsmanship, even if they are built from the bones of the old.

Not just narcissism - solipsism.

To run the story of Genesis in reverse: out of the world, back through the Garden, back before there was a Garden, back to the only point that matters: back to where there is only his word, and the "Benedict Option" Guru finally sees that his word has become the new, replacement Good, give or take a vowel.

Now if it was me, I'd stick with the original options guy, the one who died on the Cross 2,000-plus years ago. But that's just me - because I've been to the carnival before.

Of course I do this all for you

As I gently stir the Sudafed and lithium strips into the muriatic acid, lye, and lighter fluid - ha, ha, just kidding - I mean, as I gently stir the beet roots, ghost chiles, lemon rinds, oak leaves, and dust bunnies into the piquant organic fluid I found pooled in the tree roots out back behind my rent house, all now brought to a gentle, some might even say emollient, foodie simmer, I was already pondering next week's together reading together and thinking that perhaps an inspirational photo of me in my most compelling mystical guru pose might inspire all of you to the peak of ecstatic mindlessness you're craving, not to mention drive pre-sales of my soon to be proposed book on certain multi-level marketing opportunities in newly emerging nations even more vigorously.

An anonymous reader writes "Can I huddle under your robe, just for a little while?"

No. And what's that on your fingers? Have you pre-ordered your copy of my soon to be proposed book on certain multi-level marketing opportunities in newly emerging nations? I think you'll find that gives you the peace and comfort you've obviously come to me for.

Readings from a book I got at a garage sale: Week 3

 Can you believe it? Another week has flown by since our last together reading together. Before we begin our third together reading together today, I have two great announcements to make.

The first is that the reader to guess the title of the book I got at a garage sale which we've been reading together thanks to the FreeOCR translation available will be treated to a free meal under $10 at our next "View From the Hood of Your Car" meetup. Pretty cool, huh? So let's put those guessing caps on and start guessing, gang.

The second thing I want to preface our third together reading together with today will be a long, rambling account of something to make this seem more like a genuine Biblical parable, to hook those of you out there psychologically incapable of resisting people like me who resort to things like this.

So before we resume our journey through our third together reading together of a book I got at a garage sale, I want to tell you a story about my old man. This is a story my longtime shut-in and mentally incapacitated readers will have heard before (because what are they going to do, not read me even as I tell it over, and over, and over?), but some of you will be hearing it for the first time. Once you do, you will voluntarily sort yourselves into two groups, those who now know better, and those who have now become more grist for my mill. Reading about Orv and the mystery has made me think of it in a new dimension.

The picture I'm looking at which you can't see is of my father's father, back in the old country, whichever one that was. As some of you long time readers will remember, my family comes from a long and honorable line of shepherds and traveling grifters born way back before today. Most of them died a long time ago, as people do. Today I was thinking of my dad, who died just like the rest of them. Today as I'm stuffing myself with hot wings and cold beer, I'm making up a conversation with him to fill up these paragraphs.

"Da'," I ask him - I call him Da because that sounds more sophisticated and old-countryish, although his name is Earl, or was Earl before he died. "Da'," I ask him, "tell me the story of the ghosts and the pumpkin on Da-Da-Da's grave again." My father's father was called Da-Da because he was my Da's Da, you see, and his father before him was called Da-Da-Da and so on.

My father's father, Da-Da, (pron. “dah-dah”), lived in a town called Shelbyville, which used to be called Morganville before they changed it. One day as Da-Da was herding his sheep down the road to the Shelbyville ferry and casing the houses along the way, the heel of his boot suddenly broke. "Tarnation!" Da-Da exclaimed, because in those days when people herded sheep on the road to the Shelbyville ferry they seldom cursed.

My father's father, Da-Da, was crushed. Those boots had looked fairly new when he had nicked them from a porch just up the road, and it was his duty to look out for those boots' best interests as long as they were his now, but he chose to believe an evil spirit must have jinxed them, and over the clear evidence.

Da-Da confronted the renegade boot heel with the clear evidence, because with an onion tied to his belt, which was the way you thwarted the power of evil spirits to cloud your mind back in those days, it was now obvious the heel hadn't just broken.

“That’s it,” the spirit responsible for the broken heel said in a voice that sounded like thousands of bumblebees, because in those days spirits on the road to Shelbyville sounded like bumblebees. "Tell you what I'll do to make it up to you, though. Go up the hill right here to Da-Da-Da's grave and I'll give you a free pumpkin."

And so he did, and, lo and behold, there on Da-Da-Da's grave was a free pumpkin.

As Da-Da looked in wonder at the free pumpkin, because in those days a free pumpkin was nothing to sneeze at, Father Terminix, who had been strolling through the cemetery straightening the plastic flowers left by loved ones and collecting the stray hockey pucks, looked at him and said, “Do you forgive him?”

"Who?" Da-Da asked him.

"Why, whoever talked you into climbing that seventy-degree hill up from the Shelbyville ferry road."

"Oh, you mean the evil spirit that broke my boot heel. H-E-double-hockey-sticks no!" Da-Da exclaimed, because in those days people played a lot of hockey in the hilly graveyards overlooking the road to the Shelbyville ferry. "I still need a new boot heel."

As I write this getting into our third together reading together, with my belly swollen with colder beer and better wings than you had today, with a book I got at a garage sale open on the arm of my chair in my cozy corner, I’m thinking of four sorry suckers I’ve known in life, all now mysteriously gone from this place, who tried to wrong me or my loved ones. Are they lost somewhere on the road home, ruined by my actions and unforgiveness? You know, I'm not going to even pretend I care. Who am I kidding? What am I going to do about it? Nothing. But here's a better question: What would I want those I’ve hurt in my life, even without meaning to or knowing I had done it, to do for me after I’m gone? Why, I'd want them to offer me the soft side of the double standard I've always demanded in my dealings with others, pissing on others at my pleasure and whining petulantly if anything blows back on me. Why would I want anything different now?

This is not just a scene from some movie. This pseudo-parable is something I just made up on the spot right now, to gull the credulous among you. You know who you are, and thanks for your slavish adoration. Without it to pay the bills, I might have to get a real job. Boot heels don't grow on graves, you know.

And now our third reading together begins.

“Yes, he could," Tim said. “I don't like to think about it but he could have.” The Baileys’ place, Club Malibar, was downtown on Reyes Boulevard. Tim pulled in and parked close to the 8f mg? $QWW6&°- trance. The rest of the area was empty except for a big black convertible and two older cars parked in the rear. The front stood wide open to the W shim g. It was a door covered on the inside with quilted green rst pa e. The green rug was entrance. The club was empty. It was dark. The only light came from the open front door and a pair of naked W0m pps s4$ behind the bar at the rear. If there were windows they were covered. Robbed of its indirect lighting, the Mag Ow aim looked tired and cheap. The colors were fl I'lOtel‘I‘l:l:1I]lf. There was a stale smell as they walked the door and between the tables with their stacked chairs. Away from the entrance the rug was thick. They made no sound. They heard 0¢K Ox 08 O/Oh? from behind the service door on one side of the bar. Tim knew his way to the o?-ice. He had been here once before with Joe to pay a nine-thousand-dollar note. He was remembering that time; how Joe, after they had left, cursed the Bailey cursed himself and swore off gambling. They stopped in front the clatter of dishes. They heard someone moving inside Tim rapped on the door. Ann, rapped brie?y and opened the door. He stepped inside. And saw it! Bloody Orv.

Bloody Orv. But why? That's the mystery. Could Orv be a butcher? Perhaps even a Cockney butcher, so that we now find the author subtly toying with us with double-entendres.

An anonymous reader writes, "Oh, gosh, Keith! My emu herd had gotten into the datura again and were alternating between projectile vomiting and trying to peck each other to death all night, so thank goodness when I was finally able to come inside just before dawn, roll a fat one, and rest my soul with our wonderful together reading together!"

That's illegal, Reader. Still, I hope the emu's are better.

But now things get tense:

W the possib ' future act a Yyingness ' 317;, B6“ ys) there opene 11113, Qf his 01/v1; freedom galbst the background Of N051‘ is at once fascina ting and dreafifulalfn gness is a presence OW“ Bemg ‘W26, gugldgg that goes on beneath th }lipation With l‘11illé’S- “1'1"“eU_’ before Hes andgnises: novy trelnltllllé’ and tbotl-Vq. but always it is as inseparab teathing because ansiellv IS 0"’ W)’. In anxiety We both are and §e and this ls our dread. 0'1’ negative 1'Iit@IP@’1@t"*’te our erely a psy0~501°€i°al ea NO, 1-S 1,6 ?nite merely_ this earth 13 11-’""ted' He .18 etrates the V615’ Core of 1218 eri'v@dP F1“ ("11 Bej" his lozifhirz 0291179 h.'t[ZIl'1g5', that 1'"”"“” E here We he VG gone Vhers of t he a systeIn- e

Another anonymous reader writes, "Keith, I don’t know you. We’ve never met. Half the time I don't undersatand you. Can I have your baby?"

No, Reader. As sweet as that sentiment might be, it's just wrong in so many ways.

Continuing:

That made Pete grin broadly. “Claims he specialist.” He picked up another lllgsu %:_W?Um frorr brought this in, a little rundown.” He read, “ is for Allen. Lives at 47 Eaton Drive. Excel] Four-?gure bank account. No known mean: most of every day at Biceps Beach exercising That’s all we have so far. Not much, but we’ll “Biceps Beach?” Tim said. “Then he’s one ful boys

and at er ime is was almost hospitalized for not being able to make had grown up since then, developed ?g’, 6 £0 syév 6W choice-maker, but the same thing happened again and eps# t50 thought, now (((8 in this part of the world, Vs# in Thailand, and how many times will r be here again? What should Es iwsmsm 2 do? Well, maybe go to China, was the ?rst thing that came to mind. And varts3 pictured 6b f** jit hitchhiking through China. Then thought, ,,,, maybe get stuck on some tour of the cities and it would be hot and it would be ,b a ehno vyeare— maybe Nepal. Orv would get up there in the mountains—— then Tim thought, too landlocked, down to Bali, maybe. So Pete had a kind of China-Nepal-Bali triangle going in 4q nb mind, and would keep taking to the woman who was in charge of transportation on the ?lm, and ih¢&@@v would say, ”Barbara, ble's vur5 going to be going to China." ”Well, $ed/ 99 s" she'd say, ”I think you've got to go

Now, before we all do go, to China or anywhere else, I thought it would behoove us all to enjoy just how musical our selections for today sound in Armenian, a language I picked at random which I don't speak, read, or understand, but which someone out there might, and which if nothing else tees this whole effort up as being smoking hot and academicky enough to slam dunk my book proposal on certain multi-level marketing opportunities in newly emerging nations:

«Այո, նա կարող է », - Tim - ասել է «Ես չեմ սիրում մտածել դրա մասին , բայց նա կարող է ունենալ ». The Baileys ' տեղը, ակումբ Malibar էր Փոքր Կենտրոն Reyes Boulevard . Tim քաշեց եւ կայանել մոտ է 8F մգ . $ QWW6 & ° - Trance. Մնացած տարածքում դատարկ էր , բացի մի մեծ սեւ Փոխարկելի եւ երկու ավելի ավտոմեքենա parked է թիկունքում. The Front կանգնած լայն բաց է W Shim g. Դա մի դուռ որոնց վրա տարածվում է ներսում quilted կանաչ RST pa ե. Կանաչ գորգ էր մուտքի. Ակումբը դատարկ էր. Մութ էր . Միակ լույսը եկել է բաց առջեւի դուռը եւ մի զույգ մերկ W0m pps S4 $ ետեւում բար է թիկունքում. Եթե եղել են , պատուհանները նրանք ծածկված. կողոպտել դրա անուղղակի լուսավորման, Mag OW նպատակը նայեց հոգնած ու էժան. գույներով էին, FL I'lOtel'I'l : L: 1i ] LF . Կար մի հնացած հոտը, քանի որ նրանք քայլում դուռը միջեւ սեղանների իրենց stacked աթոռներ. հեռավորության վրա - ից մուտքի որ կարպետ էր հաստ. Նրանք ոչ մի ձայն. նրանք լսել 0 ¢ K Ox 08 O / Oh . ետեւից ծառայությունների դռան մի կողմում բար. Tim գիտեր իր ճանապարհը դեպի o : - սառույցի. Նա եղել է այստեղ , երբ առաջ է Joe է վճարել ինը հազար դոլար նոտա. Նա հիշել, որ անգամ , թե ինչպես Joe, երբ նրանք թողել , հայհոյել է Bailey հայհոյել է իրեն, եւ երդվեց Off Դրամախաղ. Նրանք կանգ առջեւ որ աղմուկ է ուտեստների. Նրանք լսել ինչ - որ մեկը գնում է ներսում, Tim rapped դուռը . Ann, rapped Brie . Y, եւ բացել դուռը. Նա եկանք ներսում. Եվ տեսա այն! Արյունոտ Orv

Վտ, possib, ապագան ակտը, որը Yyingness ' 317;, B6 " YS) առկա opene 11113, Qf իր 01/v1. Ազատություն galbst ֆոնին N051, այն միանգամից fascina Ting եւ dreafifulalfn gness մի ներկայություն OW »Bemg «W26, gugldgg, որ շարունակվում է վարը րդ } lipation կապնվել L'11illé'S-"1'1" "eU_ 'առաջ Hes andgnises: Novy trelnltllllé եւ tbotl - VQ. բայց միշտ դա, ինչպես inseparab teathing քանի ansiellv է 0 " W) '. Անհանգստության Մենք երկուսս էլ, եւ § E եւ այս ls մեր ահ. 0'1 ' բացասական 1'Iit @ IP @ '1 @ t »* 'Te մեր erely մի psy0 ~ 501 ° € i ° al EA NO, 1-S 1.6. Դեմք merely_ այս երկիրը 13 11 - ից «" Ted Նա .18 etrates է V615 'առանցքը 1218 eri'v @ DP F1 »(« 11 bej " նրա lozifhirz 0291179 ժ 't [ZIl'1g5, որ 1' "" "" " E այստեղ Մենք էլ VG Gone Vhers t- նա ա systeIn - ե

Որ պատրաստվում Pete grin ընդհանուր առմամբ . " Պնդում է նա: մասնագետ : «Նա վերցրեց մեկ այլ lllgsu % : _W . Um frorr բերել այս , մի քիչ էլ հյուծված »: Նա կարդում ," համար Allen. Ապրում է 47 Eaton Drive. Excel ] Քառանիշ . Մեր բանկային հաշիվը: Ոչ հայտնի նշանակում մեծ մասը ամեն օր , ժամը երկգլուխ մկան Beach իրականացնելիս Սա ամենն է, մենք ունենք մինչ օրս. Ոչ շատ , բայց մենք « Երկգլուխ մկան Beach » Tim թ. «Հետո նա մի տարիմ տղաները

եւ er ռեժիմը , որը գրեթե հոսպիտալացվել է չկարողանալով անել մեծացել էր: Դրանից հետո , որը մշակվել ? գ , 6 £ 0 syév 6W ընտրության ստեղծողի, բայց նույն բանը տեղի ունեցավ , նորից եւ EPS # t50 մտածեցի, հիմա ( (( 8 այս մասում աշխարհը, Vs # Թաիլանդում , եւ քանի անգամ պիտի r այստեղ կրկին. Ինչ պետք Es iwsmsm 2 անել? Դե, գուցե գնալ մինչեւ Չինաստան էր . RST բանը, որ եկավ մտքում. իսկ varts3 պատկերված 6b F ** JIT hitchhiking միջոցով Չինաստան. ապա մտածեցի ,,,, ,,,, , գուցե ստանում խրված է ինչ - որ փուլում է քաղաքներում, եւ դա կլինի տաք եւ դա կլինի , BA ehno vyeare - Գուցե Նեպալ . Orv կստանա մինչեւ այնտեղ լեռներում . ապա Tim մտածեցի, որ դեպի ծով ելք չունեցող , ներքեւ Բալի , գուցե. Այնպես որ, Pete մի տեսակ China - Նեպալ - Բալի եռանկյունու պատրաստվում է 4Q nb միտքը , ու պահել հաշվի է կին, ով էր պատասխանատու փոխադրման վրա : lm , եւ IH ¢ & @ @ v կասեի, "Barbara , BLE ի vur5 լինելու պատրաստվում է Չինաստան . " «Դե, $ ացված / 99 վ »: Նա ուզում է ասել, «Ես կարծում եմ, որ դու պետք է գնալ

And so our lesson for today ends, with a parable about a broken boot heel on the road to the Shelbyville ferry, a bloody Orv, or a "Bloody Orv!", or a "Bloody bloody Orv!", a mysterious encounter on Biceps Beach, a China-Nepal-Bali triangle, and what looks to be an upcoming trip to China

And Armenian, ftw.

A lot to digest, I know, but preordering my soon to be proposed book on certain multi-level marketing opportunities in newly emerging nations is one sure way to take the load off your conscience.

Until our next together reading together, and good luck in our guessing the title of the book I got at a garage sale contest.