Tom >(skowronek)< Tom

("Voice of Civic Closure" updated 2007/06/04)
(scroll down for it)
Settlement Plans for ThisSpace in MySpace
This space in myspace shall be defined by a semi-permeable and continuously-closing barrier of will, affixiation, and “shrine buildup.” Exact dimensions of the wall shall flux according to seasonal needs for warmth and exhaust, and war-time needs for barricade and mobility.
Agents and ideas (shrapnel) that wish for access into ThisSpace may negotiate entry with one of the many portals that shift along the wall’s front. Shifts will occur according to the travel of the sun, the expressions of the moon, other celestial obscenities, and regular mandates from the ThisSpace Housing Implantation Notary Conglomerate. (Lil’ bits of shrapnel are advised to bring a sandwich and wait.) Once shrapnel has successfully negotiated the opening of wall portal (“tickled the king’s fancy”), shrapnel will be quarantined to a sac against the inner wall by the phagocychotic powers of one of our customs agents, or “Fat-Boy George”s. Successive probing and reactionary gymnstics are analyzed with a firm but comprehensive tendril-headed stick through the sac’s ziploc gelatinacity.
If Fat-Boy George determines by his Roosevelt Rod the shrapnel to be lacking in “practical digestibility,” he marks the sac with the Corn Cob Stamp, until one of the many bands of nomadic citizens who wander the outskirts below the wall (the “Gypsy Moths” on “Fossil Walk”) comes by, envelops its wings around the sac, attaches its roundworm sucker discs to its membrane, and sucks and sucks until the quarantined shrapnel is finally vacuum-yanked against the Gypsy’s fine rows of teeth, and sucked dry of life. When the broken sac hits the floor, the Gypsy Moths “groove on out” with a rock ‘n roll swagger, and a beta portal, tuned to the specific sound frequency of the sac hitting the floor, picks up the locale and worms out an ameobous arm to gather in the waste and expunge to the outside. [sabotage note: Gypsy Moths have a tendency to become slothful in sudden waves that reach throughout the population, thus letting maintenance of Fossil Walk go lax, thus changing teh sound frequency of the waste-laden floor, thus failing to alert any beta portals for ejection. The Gypsy Moths, however, have a creative solution. When the stench reaches threshold levels, the Gypsy Moths throw “Swab The Artery Day!”- a festive throwdown of rip currents in flooded alleys, very civic and very synchronous bathing, and bodily ejections out the beta portals for distance. (The fast friction of naked bodies keeps the portals supple and clean.) The festival is now subsidied quaterly by the ThisSpace Havoc Incineration Narc-out Clan, a highly controversial move met with resistence like “Man, them musical moths have all the goddamned fun,” causing further rifts within this sparkling diamond of a myspace.
If Fat-Boy George by his Rosey Rod determines the shrapnel to be of hot chemistry but devoid of nutritive quality, he is stamped with the CAR Stamp, “Cancerous And Rude.” Fat-Boy George then calls up one of his “boyz” in the “Southern Gentlemen” and invites some of them over for “a bit of the ol’ hee haw.” The Southern Gentlemen, although inhabitants of Fossil Walk as well, are not as nomadic as the Gypsy Moths and tend to sit in clusters of front porches, sipping the acrid yellow juice that trickles down the walls, and massaging their own tummies. When a group of teh Southern Gentlemen arrive at the CAR Stamped quarantine, they proceed to poke at the shrapnel with their canes and toss depricating banter at it in large bellows. Once the shrapnel has shriveled 33% (“the devil’s penance”) and has gone “squirmy as a pig,” a Southern Gentleman summons by the ball of his cane a beta portal on the wall directly behind teh quarantine sac, and all Gentlemen apply “the mark of red discipline” to the shrapnel’s rumpus with such severity and sudden union as to eject it to the outside with shotgun pop. On their tipsy promenade over from the porch, the Southern Gentlemen usually agree on a “final treatise” to proclaim during the mark of red discipline. Past examples include: “Don’t Tread on Thixie!” “To A Finer Sense of Self!” and “Yes Ma’am!” [note: Many bits of shrapnel tend to require a “Declaration of the Rumpus” before the mark of red discipline is applied, due to their one-dimensional assets. Many bits of shrapnel that negotiate the wall are accidents of anarchy’s blast radius. Are you????]
Often, Fat-Boy George will simply fold up his rod, unzip the shrapnel from its sac, and palpate the shrapnel lovingly with the “Hand Of Civic Closure,” a sign that the sac will not be stamped, but not yet welcomed into the more sensitive velvet folds of ThisSpace either. He then delivers by song the “Voice of Civic Closure” in the latest style of adult contemporary as determined by the last meeting of the ThisSpace Holy Iconic Numeration Committee’s clergy. A message something along the lines of “[‘Twas good to see you again, sunshine. // May the heavens rain their saturative essence upon your shores. // Stay in touch, and stay tangeable.]” Sometimes, Fat-Boy George has a surplus of sandwiches which he offers to the shrapnel before their leaving, along with a paper crown with puzzles and games on the inside band. (All goodwill gifts would not be possible if not for the regenerative mechanics and scavengerous compulsions of the ThisSpace Holistic Instinctual Negation Collective, and their kick-ass refinery down on Pancreatic Way.)
If Fat-Boy George determines the shrapnel to be of “benevolent development,” he sounds a bull horn into the forested way beyond Fossil Walk. The recoil from teh blast tears a shockwave through the membrane of the quarantine sac, and the shrapnel drops out to the floor thus declaring the shrapnel, “Shrapnel With Character.” He then travels into the wood, and the real kung-fu commences. [note: Shrapnel are now advised upon hitting the floor to take one step forward, as there have been incidents of older beta portals altering the sound frequency of the floor through their own worn and calloused skin, and sometimes ejecting the Shrapnel With Character anyway. This has caused numerous diplomatic incidents as well as presenting a suffocation hazard.]
Buggy lil’ shrapnels are forwarned not to attempt to blow out or jam open any of the portals in the wall, or ThisSpace, through executives of the ThisSpace Harikari Implosive Nowhere Compromise, will be forced to buy out you and all external agents, thus eradicating all autonomous properties, and reducing god’s flowering blossom to a yellow crust of globality, until some passerby alien ship comes by (“Welp Bill, looks like Ol’ Mother Russia finally did herself in,”) and reaps our vegetative matter in one shuck, like a ripe and stagnant carrot from the october rock.