The Pungeoning

Meeting Minutes 033109: Rig-One Avatar Hub Legit

2009-03-31T12:52:00.001-07:00

Pensador Paradoja: Fuego en la Mente

2009-03-23T15:25:00.000-07:00

Genmetsu: Ned’s second wind bodes ill

2009-03-09T12:47:00.001-07:00

“Arm candy makes good copy”

While the sad lament of unrealistic middle-aged fantasies is quite common, fair quarter must be given to the understandable need for idealism at any age.
Unfortunately, it is not until mid-life when some realise that that which should have been recognised in earlier years is as pertinent now as ever.
Ideals of beauty, depth, and most of all, potential, are timeless qualities that beg to be acknowledged, regardless of circumstance.
So why must the man -- who has had decades with which to accrue wisdom -- blindly pursue Bygone Barbies and Caricatures of Cassandras whom he will never heed?

[SPOILT EGO SPENDS JACK ON SUBSTANTIVE INTROSPECTION]

Klæders nye Keiseren: Enter the Pod

2009-02-20T14:14:00.000-08:00

Celebrate Decadence!

Let’s be frank: By ‘decadence’ we mean the point at which a creative function’s indwelling essence has rotted, leaving nothing but the outer rind of form. We do know that new forms come from new experiences. Fair enough. But unfortunately, using yesteryear’s zeitgeist as today’s boutade célèbre spells out the harsh reality that’s all too obvious to most outside the shell.

“Embrace the Clothes’ New Emperor”

Yes, the presence of the pod itself is deemed more important than what’s in it. Apparently, it just doesn’t matter:
• Where your good intentions lead, as long as you speak loudly of them.
• Who is in charge, as long as you oppose them.
• What your tattoo means, as long as you show it.

In the end, it’s all about the carapace...

Gaseous Fray: Kötü bir etkisi direnerek

2009-02-06T14:27:00.000-08:00

[Gass-Boy’s icon re-rendered from the fourth stratum]

A witness fell in with the Haskell-esque Gass-Boy sometime during the third stratum. Oh, the mischief he saw from the roads of Cambridge thenceforward.

• Weasel’s dad was working under his car when Gass-Boy just missed him with a snowball. Chase ensued from Nottingham to Sheffield.
• Oh, and on the hill behind Weasel’s house? The Golden Shampoo Incident. The heinous details remain expurgated, but let it be known that, yes, another chase ensued.
• Gass-Boy’s skirt-flipping move in Cranford that resulted in a manhandling by leather clad, 6-foot Cosmo.
• Hunched over with a nosebleed earned by a wisecrack. “I’m not hurt. I’m just trying to spell ‘KISS’ on the pavement with my blood. Really.”
• A spastic basement spree that resulted in Elvis 45’s shattering against breeze-block and wood panelling.
• The dead fish in the greeting card presented to some unsuspecting lass, and the unsurprising revulsion reaction thereafter.
• Expeditions through Mystery Hill to seek out abandoned tree forts where men’s magazines lay charred.
• Torching the pitch behind Platt Plaza.
• The Naked Tripod.
• The Crippled-Bird Salute.

Et cetera, ad nauseum.

As often realised in hindsight, our proximity to trickster archetypes act as cautionary tales to guide our witnesses down the road.

Cuiusvis hominis est errare; nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare.

Seraph POV Triptych: Navio das Luzes

2009-01-22T12:15:00.000-08:00

Ismeretlen Ember: Xenomancy in Brume

2009-01-15T09:04:00.000-08:00

Trenutek 010908: božje drevce

2009-01-09T12:58:00.000-08:00

[A year ago today]

Meeting Minutes 010709: Kongo Kulu

2009-01-07T15:14:00.000-08:00

Sclera Caballo: Reinaba el Pánico

2009-01-05T09:48:00.000-08:00

It happened during the third chukker.
Could have been a bug bite, or a sharp noise perhaps. Whatever it was, the mare that was being hot-walked was spooked enough that it bolted off past the back paddock towards the main road.
Quick thinking by Jack Casher allowed him to commandeer the Citation, where he would ride shotgun with Courier One at the helm.
The vehicle’s wheels spat up rust-coloured mud as it spun into gear and tore down the dirt path before turning onto Thomson Ferry Road. The berserk horse was less than a third of a kilometer up the road galloping through the four-lane traffic, its speed equal to the cars around it.
“Dammit,” swore Jack through his teeth.
Courier One mashed the accelerator and closed the distance between them and the fleeing steed.
Pulling alongside the animal, you could see clumps of foamy sweat clinging to its chestnut coat. The rapid clip-clop of bloody hooves rattled the asphalt like impatient fingers drumming a tabletop. Have you ever seen the whites of a horse’s eyes as it’s racing uphill at 50kph amidst two-tonne vehicles?
“Here, girl... heeere, girl,” Casher coaxed, hanging out the window with his arm beckoning. Was it the sound of a familiar voice, or the sight of its master in the corner of the beast’s eye? One or the other, the horse slowed gradually, as did the auto beside it. The gallop became a canter, and finally a trot slow enough that Casher could hop out and jog alongside, snatching the bridle with one hand and reassuringly gripping her withers with his other.
All finally came to a halt on the roadside with the din and blur of traffic whizzing by.

When something sets you off into a blind panic, and when the world is furiously rushing by you, who or what is there to grab your bridle to rein you in and talk you down?

Astra quae disploduntur terror

2008-12-29T13:41:00.000-08:00

Red globe hovering o’er
the puddled street
casting a brooding glow
in the quiet night

Swolt and seething
the hydrostatic balance teeters
Autolytic pulse ever quivering
as oscillators scream ascendant
Impotent rage fuels carbon detonation
unbinding the manifold:
Human Combust

APF 6700 Car-Vue/Q-Mast

2008-12-12T15:01:00.000-08:00

The Orville Corporation has unveiled its latest design for a multi-modal communications mast/car park for the benefit of the Allied Pungeoning Front. The superstructure will feature a civilian configuration of an unguyed aerial transmission tower conjoined with a multi-storey car park.

• Proposed location: Barney Scholls Road, Heritageville
• Projected height: 667m
• Projected voltage potential: 120kV
• Proposed parking allotment: 720 vehicles
• Estimated completion: February 2011

The transmission array will afford full pungent response broadcasts with several half-wave radiator options.
Parking platforms will be accessible via guardrail-buttressed spiral ramps.
Another highlight will be ‘Concourse Q,’ providing commercial and limited-use space for boutiques and restaurants. Especially exciting is a planned linear-induction motorised people-mover -- one that functions vertically as well as horizontally. (An Orville first!)
Above Concourse Q will be Sky Deck Alpha. The 360° Observation Platform here is expected to be a major public draw, with its majestic views of the greater Heritageville valley and Classic City.
The APF also has plans here for the Sky Lodge -- a convivial, members-only lounge modeled on the handsome study at Seaside Pungeonary, with contemporary jet-set décor.
The Pungeonary Pavilion itself will be at the very top of the superstructure between Transmitter A and Heli-Pad 02. The Pungeonary will be directly wired into the Q-Mast, fully able to broadcast live pungeonings, or to act as a relay facility, beaming activities from remote APF annexes.

Among the Grand Opening festivities will be the introduction of mascot “Fake Craig” -- a mannequin host outfitted with a hidden cassette recorder containing courteous phrases such as, “Welcome to Concourse Q,” “Have a nice day,” and “Cuddle on, dudes.” A hidden pulley will also enable Fake Craig to “high-five” the visitors. Kids are sure to be enthralled with this cutting edge technology with a friendly face.
The APF is expecting the Car-Vue/Q-Mast to be a rousing success. And the Orville Corporation will surely deliver.
So come out to the APF 6700 Car-Vue/Q-Mast in February 2011 and see the future, today... tomorrow.

[Spectrum is blue]

Oratoria dello Psilologo

2008-12-01T13:01:00.000-08:00

The People’s Rights Festival was your typical uni-town, hemp-clad happening that featured low-grade art, music and “awareness-raising.” An annual celebration that even the most apolitical could enjoy, checking out bands, people-watching and whatnot.
But this year rumour spread that Big Name Orator would be passing through town to grace the stage with his beknighted wisdom.
The excitement that seeped through the crowd was palpable. Folks who wouldn’t be caught dead at this type of event were seen wandering down from their council flats, curious to listen to a Big Name, yet their pudding-like pace trudging down to the stage on Town Square didn’t appear particularly inspired.
A bus pulls up behind the stage -- that must be him! Out he strolls, escorted up the stairs to the mic.
The speech itself, coming from a professional speechmaker, sounded beautiful at first, of course.
But then the template became obvious.
• Feel-good phrases that rhymed like a stale storybook
• Call-and-response platitudes
• Heads dipped in a content-less saccharine prayer

Everyone felt good.
Then it was over. Back onto the bus and off into the sunset.
Folks from the council flats plodded uphill back to their domiciles, their chins no higher nor lower than before.

In the time passed between then and today, what has changed for those who witnessed The Preachening? Apparently, very little.
Wasted words or words of waste?
With empty speechifying and false hope built up upon nil, would it be fair to consider this an ‘anti-sermon’?

———

POST-SCRIPT: The hippiesque crowd, types normally proud to remind others of their ability at BS detection, swallowed the idealistic yet hollow oration. Those “dumb proles,” judging by their nonplussed gait moping back to the flats, were not quite impressed by the same experience.

C’est à rire: Just one of those days

2008-11-26T15:48:00.000-08:00

“Engine won’t start.”
“Spring open the bonnet, I’ll have a look. Try the ignition again.”
Seconds later the TAOMPV’s motor comes to life.
“Thanks, mate.”
“Not a problem,” says the mechanic, pulling his hands away, letting the bonnet clang shut.

Cruising down the motorway at a smooth 70 kph, Ian Stoddard notices a faint vibration coming from the van.
The bonnet is quivering.
“Uh--”
**BANG**
The bonnet explodes open, locking vertically, completely obscuring the windscreen.
Stoddard swears under his breath.
Time dilation kicks in.

Plant foot solidly on brake pedal without slamming it. Press it down firmly until it touches the floor. As you do that, pull over to the centre turning lane. There’s less of a chance of collision there than crossing over the two lanes to reach the hard shoulder.
The van comes to a full stop in the centre lane. Stoddard puffs out his cheeks and exhales sharply.
Time elapsed: eight seconds.

“My own fault,” surmises Ian. “Should have checked the bonnet myself to see that it had latched.”

As the van pulls up to the TAO offices, a greenish splatter of goo nails Ian’s arm.
“Jeez, that’s a first. Isn’t getting hit with bird dreck good luck in Italy or somewhere? Could’ve used the luck earlier. Or maybe I did.”

“That was the last job for today, Ian. You can take the rest of the day off,” said Miss Wood, the receptionist. “What’s wrong? You look shaken up,” she asked, cocking her head with a crease in her brow. She was the closest thing to a confidant at the office, but Stoddard wasn’t up to regaling her with white-knuckle tales of terror.
“Oh... nothing. Got bombed by a pigeon. Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The house was quiet when Ian walked in. He took in a deep breath, paused, and blew it out slowly.
‘Wonder how the rabbits are doing,’ he thought as he opened the back door.
Two dogs spun around, caught unawares. The bottom of the hutch was ripped apart.
“What the--”
The mutts made a beeline for a gap in the hedges. Gone.
Left behind was the lifeless, mangled body of the white rabbit, pink eyes staring blankly up at the blue sky. Stoddard uttered a dry, point-blank curse. No sign of the brown rabbit.
“Maybe he got away. I hope.”
He found a shovel and carved a shallow grave in the back corner of the yard.
‘Rabbits scare easily, right? Hope it was over and quick for her.’
Filling the hole, he was struck by the contrast of the soft, white fur, bit by bit, vanishing under the rich, dark soil. He finished the burial, leaving it unmarked, and walked back inside.
The sun was dipping below the trees but he didn’t feel like turning on the lights just yet. He stood before the picture window, hands on hips, and drew another deep breath through his nose.
Across the street stood Professor Hubert’s bunker atelier. Some movement in the shrubbery caught Ian’s eye. A shabbily dressed fellow was trying to squeeze in through the loosely secured rolling doors.
“What next?” he muttered as he rung the authorities.
Coppers pull up scant seconds later, cautiously entering the same way. In no time they emerge holding the perp by his collar like some naughty cat caught with his paws in the fish tank.
“Dumb hobo, doesn’t even know what he’s looking for.”

Stoddard collapsed on the lounge, stretching his arms out, letting his head roll back upon the cushion. The weight of a boulder off the shoulders.
Silence.
*RING-RING*
*RING-RING*
Pupils edge to the eye’s corners shooting daggers at the phone. Another breath and he answered:
“Hello?”
“Ian Stoddard? This is Ms. Pierce from the Heritageville Courant-Ledger. How are you?”
“Getting by, thanks. You?”
“Great. I wanted to do an interview with you for an upcoming music edition this month.”
“Regarding which band? I’m in four or five at the current moment.”
“Oh, it’s not about your bands; it’s about you, the musician, being in all those bands.”
Humility kicks in with a waft of bland paranoia.

‘After today’s events, does one really need an ego trip?’ Stoddard grills himself.
‘Maybe. But all that has transpired is happenstance. How one deals with it is freewill.’
Complaints? Curses? Bewailment? An ego-soothing appearance on Oprah?
It is to laugh.

“No, but thank you, Ms. Pierce. I do appreciate the thought. Good day.”
Stoddard pushed himself back into the cushions, smiled wryly, and watched through the window as the sky turned from indigo to violet, and finally to black.

Meeting Minutes 111808: Verdrängt durch den Sägebock

2008-11-18T08:15:00.001-08:00

Terre des Nuages: A First Time for Everything

2008-11-11T14:54:00.000-08:00

(In the spirit of Engrish, apologies for the translation.)

Le salon dans le manoir, d’ordinaire brillant et confortable, les positions a assourdi maintenant et un peu fade. Cinq ou six flânent environ dans les procès et les robes, prévoyant silencieusement le voyage de 3 heures. Les sonneries de téléphone, ponctuant encore les ombres. Venir par le récepteur, l’un peut entendre d’à travers la pièce le Turc qui plaide -- les sanglots hystériques, presque comme un animal. Etre seulement une connaissance récente, elle est doucement dite qu’elle devrait les restes derrière. Le pleurer continue à verser en avant, comme le téléphone est doucement abaissé dans son berceau. Le voyage lui-même est subjugué.
Le long du voyage le blanc de flammes de soleil dans un ciel silencieux qui sent glacé dans son bleu, même pour mars. Le tordre et tourner de la route par les contreforts de l’Alpes-Maritimes rampent vers l’haut par les arbres épais. Sur une pente herbeuse repose un signe en bois, une lettres taillées expliquant sèchement ‹ la Source d’Eau Musicale de Montagne ›. En haut de la colline les forces de Citroën augmentent par un écart dans les arbres, où tient une chapelle en pierre rustique à côté d’un cimetière modeste.

« La révélation d’une mort de l'ami toujours décontenance, inutile de dire. Peut-être ils sont morts de circonstances tragiques ; peut-être c’était le simplement vieil âge. Nous avons de la peine brièvement et nous nous déplaçons sur avec les mâchoires moitié-empoignés, rappelant les vies ils ont mené au lieu de la façon qu’ils sont partis ».

En entrant la chapelle, l’un est rappelé d’est dans une grande loge, avec sa maçonnerie de granit et son bois en chêne. C’est-à-dire, jusqu’à ce que l’un remarque les bancs d’église et le cercueil fermé. Les détails exacts commencent à palîr dans la brume de porter le deuil. La famille et les amis semblent promener de, offrant des condoléances. Les hymnes lointains résonnent par les chevrons. Un registre de quelque genre est signé avec les mots déjà oublié.
Quelques-uns errent hors de retour pour un souffle frais. Sous les arbres l’humeur est un peu moins formelle mais non moins douloureux. Les amis tirent avec effort sur leurs Gauloises. Les mains dans les poches. Les pieds tiennent à placer le sol. L’air mord pendant que le soleil d’après-midi dernier coule derrière les grands pins.
Un homme se tient stoïquement toujours, pourtant dans il est consterné : il a perdu juste son petit frère. Deux soeurs, inconsolables, et une mère cachée parmi un cercle de beaucoup bien-aimé. Et dominant sur tout le monde est le patriarche : craché de portrait du de la décédé, plus grand que vie, une épine raide et la crinière blanche d’un abbé de Provence. Son visage, travaillé dans l’agonie gelée, rendant compte son plus jeune fils, un autre homme plus grand que vie qui saisirait n’importe quel moment... allé.
Il y a homme que qui jamais a fixé sur les visages d’hommes et de femmes qui a survécu leurs enfants ? Un homme qui ne ceci a jamais vu tient maintenant ruminer, rendre compte qu’il voit pour la première fois. Il se traîne loin de la foule, le passé la dispersion humble de tombes qui est être le lieu de Benoit reposant, et les promenades dans la forêt. Plus lent il piétine, la brosse croque sous les pieds, jusqu’à ce qu’il vient à un grand rocher de granit. L’homme redresse son manteau et sa cravate et assied languissamment, engourdiment, seul dans les bois, où tout est fait conscient, et il peut commencer à pleurer.

Secret Star of Sunday’s Grill-Out

2008-11-06T06:12:00.000-08:00

Icon upon cardboard
perched on a utility room shelf,
for years you sit there
making an impression
quasi-Dobbsian
a bulldada visage to be
affixed to future communiqués...

...Exemplum gratia:

“Challenge Accepted.”

One good thing that should come out of critical analysis is that people will wake up and take charge of their destiny.
Of course, there is a downside to knowledge. Many people do not have the courage nor the intestinal fortitude to stand up for what is right.
At the Grill-Out, this fact was pointed out very well. Sure, the easy way out is to celebrate in the dark behind walls. Many people are thrilled to death because they think that our demise is going to be a real benefit to them. Despite what appears to be true, will it really be? When they fail, the rest could fail as well.

The sanctity of the Grill-Out was upheld. The pursuit... the victory... the coup de maître of Slack was reaffirmed. The challenge was accepted with vigour, as the rich smoke billowed upward from the green.

Mystery Device at Pilastro Terrasport

2008-11-03T08:40:00.000-08:00

“I wonder what the ‘Hell/Hole’ was?” Grandmum quipped while frying eggs one summer morning. Junior blanched at mention of the ‘H-word,’ but silently he wondered too about the attractions he wasn’t privy to in Madeira Selváge the previous night.
There was the Palace of Crystal -- what appeared to be a revolving maze of mirrors. And that strange building with the balconies -- was that Frankenstein chasing that shrieking teenager? And the aforementioned Hell/Hole -- an imposing black façade with a hideous winged demon lording over the glowing red portal.
“Can we go in there?!” Junior had pleaded, pointing.
“No, you’re too young,” the adults muttered back.
Denied.

—————

For years the enigma of the Hell/Hole lurked in the back of Junior’s imagination. What was it? Dungeon? Fright Haus? Prototype Pungeonary?
Eventually, documents came to light revealing to Junior the curious lair and its fate.
His eyes pored over the ledger and accompanying photos. His brow knit and his shoulders slunk forward.
“That’s what the Hell/Hole was?!”
The grainy picture showed an old vertical cylinder with a walkway around the top. Junior recognised it immediately.
It was one of those glorified centrifugal force chambers with the dropaway floor bit. Just like at the Third Kingdom, the cylinder would spin, people would stick to the walls, and vomitus would spew laterally, arcing rivulets around the chamber, much to the horror of the other occupants.
Hell/Hole, indeed.
“Hmph. This is more silly than scary,” Junior reflected. “Imagination let down by reality yet again.”
Yes, Junior, reality will do that to ya.
But it doesn’t hurt to imagine.

Hester Panim and the Blind Bacchae

2008-10-22T13:24:00.000-07:00

Johnny Gutts is a man bound by his moral code. He was always a curious sort, never conscious of the spine that was already there. Questioning doctrines, ideologies, meta-memes — what have you. The quintessential Protestant Agnostic, wary of what lies beyond human ken.

“The older one gets, the more one learns... The more one learns, the more one realizes how much they have yet to learn... and the virtue of humility is thus nurtured.” [Aversion to Epistemic Arrogance]

A weight hangs — a deistic eye in the sky that looks back, whether proverbially, theologically or even evolutionarily — over one to do The Right Thing. Genetic mandates to preserve the soul, perhaps?

Atheism as an all-encompassing weltanschauung had already been tossed out by Mr. Gutts.
“Where is the sense of the ‘What if’?”
This ism’s own metaphysical certitude had cemented itself as yet another brand of ‘faith’ — albeit one with its own built-in dead end. Not that some atheists don‘t hew nobly to their own particular moral codes. But look at those many whom one would expect rational thinking, who instead volley forth uncritically into a froth over such vague yet in-vogue tropes as Foggy Envirotheism, Utopioid Rousseauan Hand-Holding and other secular antinomian harangues they foist upon the rest of us.
One belief/faith supplants another.
It is in man’s nature to have a god — God or no God.

——————

Mr. Gutts had always appreciated the hedonistic aspect of every young lad’s lifestyle, especially while enjoying the salacious favours of one Miss Nichts. But in one instance the young lady reminisced freely about some debauched past deed, one that even the most irreverent and libertine would find cause to blush.
“Well, it doesn’t matter ‘cos I’m an atheist,” was her dismissive quip, cast with a hollow shrug.
The tone of voice, one with peccant glee, came across as throwing one’s palms up, waving away everyone and everything but the self. It gave Johnny pause, as her Faith in No Faith seemed to give her carte blanche for writing off both consequence and conscience.
Johnny Gutts thought long and deep.
“What a shallow life one must have if their raison d’être is predicated on what amounts to be an adolescent excuse...”

The Bacchantes found the pool of Narcissus and inward they gazed...
On the opposite bank sit Dionysus, Azathoth, Set and YHWH, quietly humming the melody of “El Mistater.”

Perhaps the gods have the last laugh.

"Are you ready for retail?"

2008-10-09T15:05:00.001-07:00

World's Loneliest Tailgate

2008-09-26T14:31:00.001-07:00

Échantillon LXXV de papier peint

2008-09-23T14:20:00.000-07:00

-- Dans la chambre à coucher de Frank Hobbs et Mme Walker.

Reactions and Responses on a Blue Sky Tuesday

2008-09-11T12:01:00.000-07:00

• Scene: Lunch counter. TV above blaring the latest news. An older gentleman takes a stool at the counter. It is probably his first time at this establishment. He wears shirtsleeves and a dark bow-tie. His hair is a simple, grey flat-top and he has old horn-rimmed glasses. He looks as if he belongs in a small-town Southern drug store, accustomed to providing scrip to blue-haired ladies with their aches and pains.
But he sits here with a tight jaw, looking up silently at the TV with a rigid spine, perhaps holding in some ache or pain of his own.
He nonchalantly orders a reuben.

• A few seats down is an unkempt college student furiously working on his second Scotch before one o’clock. His eyes burn at the TV overhead as he swears under his breath at the news. Is he angry because he is drinking, or drinking because he is angry? One might suppose the latter.

• Down the street a husky fireman stands on the corner, a fire engine parked haphazardly behind him. He holds out a galvanized tin bucket as he pleads for donations from the melee of passers-by.

The news is a thousand miles away, but every locale has its reactions.

• Here, a mental reaction: The old man’s silent reserve and hardened focus belie the thoughts churning in his head. Is he a vet perhaps, thinking of the past? Or maybe a grandfather thinking of the future?

• Another reaction -- this one verbal: The student with fire on his tongue. Alas, heated words borne of liquid courage.

• And a third reaction: An emergency professional, again, a thousand miles from the news, doing what he can physically, even monetarily, to alleviate the situation.
A reaction and a response.

At this point, any observer can spout platitudes (”Actions speak louder than words”) or pithy quotes (“Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it” -- Charles R. Swindoll) that may accurately illustrate the sentiment of an unfolding scene as such.
Instead, may this author offer humble and simple words:
Hats off to the reflexes of mortal men and first responders whose sense of duty transcends the self.

Adult Heresy: Puer Aeternus

2008-09-02T12:41:00.000-07:00

Witness the adult who insists on frantically coat-tailing whatever Cultural Yugo comes sputtering down the pike, retroactively clinging to some imaginary vestige of ego-pampered youth, reinventing salad days in which he was only a flavourless vegetable.
The failure of the Societal Superego to temper the Peter-Pan-meets-Pauly-Shore Syndrome in aging men* has resulted in legions of middle-aged, middle management turds grasping for relevance with false nostalgioid opiates (as if real nostagioid opiates weren’t bad enough).

Taken to its gerontological and psychological extreme, what would we have?

Paunchy, pasty putzes toolin’ for tail in the high school parking lot, blasting Creed from their T-top Z-28s? Graying geezers drooling on their GAP Kids™ t-shirts and teddy bears as they relish a future of unfettered infantilism? Depends™.
Yes, it all hinges on what a civil, sane society will allow. Perhaps an end to people just muttering and looking the other way. Pungeoning protocol dictates a “cut to the chase.” “Calling it like you smell it,” if you will.
Which brings us full circle back to a Societal Superego that needs a shot in the arm. A Collective Consciousness with cojones that isn’t afraid to Take the Punge. A no-nonsense potency with the austerity of a drill sergeant, ready to pounce and punge any who dare commit Adult Heresy.

*Do not be mistaken in thinking that this is solely a men’s issue. It is equally pathetic when middle-aged women engage in such questionable self-affirming activities as trolling for boytoy, vain implants, and the wearing of mix-n-match animal prints with one-size-fits-all white stretch pants.

Petrolic Assault Upon Opthalmic Economy

2008-08-19T15:35:00.000-07:00

“It’s petrol! It’s in her eyes! Why are you standing there?!”

LXXXIX Gulf Coast summer day
Dry & Dusty Fill’n’Go bakes by the highway
Door flies open with staggering, shrieking woman, clawing at her EYES MY EYES MY EYES MY EYES PETROL MY EYES PETROL MY EYES!!!

Cashier and customers taken aback
Something is seriously Not Right with this unfolding scene
And through the door walks in Miss Shotgun
Traveling chum nonplussed; Shotgun rider unruffled, unmiffed; Standing there standing there...
...in the face of Adjunct Nonchalance.