DrMotorcity
Don Trump calls me Pornography Man
It is with great trepidation, a heavy heart, and a light demiglace over ice that I bring this devastating news to you, my friends.
Ah, an Upper Peninsula separated from a Lower one by a mere sliver of sea known as the Straits of Mackinac. Yet there's only one strait that I could ever find? And there are those annoyingly cynical types who will leap at the opportunity to remind the listener (or in this case, reader) that that was in actuality the name of a short-lived (very short lived) television program centered around one of Henry Ford's finest products and the two unemployables that drove it aimlessly about the Great Lake State for reasons in rebellion with any rational thinking when one takes into account the price of maintaining an automobile and their scantilly-clad cousin, who, I believe has her own thread at FreeOnes, and of which the afore mentioned undersupervised individuals are heavy contributors to, as is their collective cantankerous "uncle,"—as if television "uncles" were ever anything but cantankerous—it has been reported. Do you see my point? No, I didn't mean it that way.
Ushankas or polo shirts, but what the difference, you may ask? For one, I never played polo, I can attest. Then again, I'm not even certain what it is. And where would one place the cufflinks? Obviously, neither one of these items has anything to do with black socks, be they missing or accounted for, and as for things "fore" associated with those that are "links," the weather is far too uncooperative to risk standing out in an open field with a metal device in one's hand held high above their head. I thought about doing it one time, but instead graciously donated the particular acoutrements and the appointed space in time to a specific divorce attorney whom I was more than just casually familiar with. Yes, those socks were special—in fact, it was my favorite of the pair whose disappearence we have engaged in communion to lament.
I have seen such a thing—a "Polo," a model of automobile manufactured by an extemporanous concern that we don't like to talk about; to be specific, several of them, in fact, when ever the Detroit River is being dredged, occassionally the stray "Polo" will be hauled up from the mud and eventually deposited on shore, and quite possibly, that is where my missing black sock is, perhaps caught in the craw of an Asian carp enroute to Canada, where the currency exchange rate is considerably more favorable and the radio stations are much more listenable to, broadcasting less commercials per hour than their American counter-part, for which this emerging nation conducts its own counter-part operations, as a deterent against the irksome special-orders and their accompanying "3-5 working day" delay, as well as the infernal "backordered item" and the numbingly deceitful "out of stock" rhetoric, though I would not entirely rule it out of being in the car just the same.
And were that sock to make it to Canada, and capably assimilate it self among these "Easterners," for an extended length of time, and then, through the grace of Providence, and with a nod to Greely, find its way back to its humble place of origin, and finally be reunited with its twin, would they even recognize themselves? Sure, without question, wouldn't you say, each would be certain to recognize their respective self—the implementation of a mirror would be helpful—after all, know thy self, as extolled by the Śaiva Siddhanta Church. Yes, but would one recognize the other? Months and even years of estrangement, and in a foreign land where the only natives are people who were born there or otherwise they wouldn't be called that and then to return to its home a' blaze in yellow ribbons and festooned in benjemina ficus plants in the proud American Midwest, speaking such an unintelligible tongue, rendering the repatriated article indiscernable in sound and appearance as if it were the virtual embodiment of Bob and / or Doug McKenzie / Cause it gets in your brain / It drives you insane / With the frenzy ... !!!
Be it not forthright removed seven years ago on the dawnsome cusp of the nascent noviation of high-nuncupative neo-vexation, or nay, that it 'twere, it is truly a sad day.
CONTINUED ...
Ah, an Upper Peninsula separated from a Lower one by a mere sliver of sea known as the Straits of Mackinac. Yet there's only one strait that I could ever find? And there are those annoyingly cynical types who will leap at the opportunity to remind the listener (or in this case, reader) that that was in actuality the name of a short-lived (very short lived) television program centered around one of Henry Ford's finest products and the two unemployables that drove it aimlessly about the Great Lake State for reasons in rebellion with any rational thinking when one takes into account the price of maintaining an automobile and their scantilly-clad cousin, who, I believe has her own thread at FreeOnes, and of which the afore mentioned undersupervised individuals are heavy contributors to, as is their collective cantankerous "uncle,"—as if television "uncles" were ever anything but cantankerous—it has been reported. Do you see my point? No, I didn't mean it that way.
Ushankas or polo shirts, but what the difference, you may ask? For one, I never played polo, I can attest. Then again, I'm not even certain what it is. And where would one place the cufflinks? Obviously, neither one of these items has anything to do with black socks, be they missing or accounted for, and as for things "fore" associated with those that are "links," the weather is far too uncooperative to risk standing out in an open field with a metal device in one's hand held high above their head. I thought about doing it one time, but instead graciously donated the particular acoutrements and the appointed space in time to a specific divorce attorney whom I was more than just casually familiar with. Yes, those socks were special—in fact, it was my favorite of the pair whose disappearence we have engaged in communion to lament.
I have seen such a thing—a "Polo," a model of automobile manufactured by an extemporanous concern that we don't like to talk about; to be specific, several of them, in fact, when ever the Detroit River is being dredged, occassionally the stray "Polo" will be hauled up from the mud and eventually deposited on shore, and quite possibly, that is where my missing black sock is, perhaps caught in the craw of an Asian carp enroute to Canada, where the currency exchange rate is considerably more favorable and the radio stations are much more listenable to, broadcasting less commercials per hour than their American counter-part, for which this emerging nation conducts its own counter-part operations, as a deterent against the irksome special-orders and their accompanying "3-5 working day" delay, as well as the infernal "backordered item" and the numbingly deceitful "out of stock" rhetoric, though I would not entirely rule it out of being in the car just the same.
And were that sock to make it to Canada, and capably assimilate it self among these "Easterners," for an extended length of time, and then, through the grace of Providence, and with a nod to Greely, find its way back to its humble place of origin, and finally be reunited with its twin, would they even recognize themselves? Sure, without question, wouldn't you say, each would be certain to recognize their respective self—the implementation of a mirror would be helpful—after all, know thy self, as extolled by the Śaiva Siddhanta Church. Yes, but would one recognize the other? Months and even years of estrangement, and in a foreign land where the only natives are people who were born there or otherwise they wouldn't be called that and then to return to its home a' blaze in yellow ribbons and festooned in benjemina ficus plants in the proud American Midwest, speaking such an unintelligible tongue, rendering the repatriated article indiscernable in sound and appearance as if it were the virtual embodiment of Bob and / or Doug McKenzie / Cause it gets in your brain / It drives you insane / With the frenzy ... !!!
Be it not forthright removed seven years ago on the dawnsome cusp of the nascent noviation of high-nuncupative neo-vexation, or nay, that it 'twere, it is truly a sad day.
CONTINUED ...
