a few years ago

Nothing not much withstanding ever the wither when and weary more of other mires completed and dire soothing; a rubbing that which in a theatre some may have fixated, that the hopes that all the beards  would suddenly come up, and maybe getting or have gotten the vibe of a one or two when-the-cats-cough in a series of likable but awkward outwardly directions, as it's the coast here where I am presently typing this, and those offshore breezes would have other things to indicate or have sayings during an afternoon canoe trip, from the summertime, not now, silly, or perhaps during the jury duties compelled or impelled, not sure which, upon one, when one has that old coat from back-along, and one or two (of you, not me) ruminate about the of's and which, or about a, or and a, much needed impeachable affectation, maybe just Ben Afleck, and them's-the socks, an iota/gather oft whose, said or instant effects, as you, or oui, the yes-we friendliness, and frackable, dashingly handsome, what do you know, interrogative and otherwise, that their holes and share, a ware, another slab of crummy local pale, and camera cycles inwardly, in a strained gesture, maybe even elastistic, and embarrassing when looked throughout the family albums, at the relative, a cousin or someone, blessed in lack/face, I mean, damn, just run the jacket through again, get it all sharkskin ironed, shiny-shiny as epoxied telephone wrappers, you know: circa 1968 global vile age & idiot all the hems and he's and ad agencies, all a wheeze, knees, dying for a joke at this point, or better yet, the punchline, drunk and Judy, the putrid long-hair at the end of the bar, and by bar I don't mean the examinable passing-type that I used to videotape lectures for, stewed, no, fermented in his chair or stool or ire, chanting, a skipping loop, his perfected groan and graveled grossly enlarged Adam's apple mantra of the time before our own memetic cringe-worthy "mind equals blown" orations of a generation, or prenatal penetration that hexes our banal collusions with spiral-graphs of pretty colors and swirl patrons ooo'ing and lowing over the wicked late nineties rendering of installation art when it was really just an impervious arrangement of text and mashup throw up resembling more of a schiesse bloom than that dumb ass doopie-doo'ing his "I want what you're on", insinuating that it takes something better than caffeine and alcohol and fresh air to pull one's trousers down, in this case, my own, and wear a caviar tin and make a bunch of heinous noise for a living, or at best, pretend that I was preened and geared for the coming life I'd been pining for in 2006, and not remembering the entirety of this not-withstandbable entry, a slough, like the rub left when the cats scoot their buttocks purringly across the floor like some form of martial art or frog-ninja-yogi-actionism maneuver, times 12, wait for the yell coming from the other room, ie., 'pon seeing the dingle berries, and realizing that being helpful isn't a task usually applied to felines, in general, I mean, and what's with her?