11/25/2016

In Attendance: Gary, Panama, Pastor, Scribe, Silent Bob, Solomon

Scribe is honored to compose the second in a hopefully never-ending series of blogs for T-14. He attempts to make amends for the past two months during which Pastor subliminally baited him to commence penning absurdities. While Pastor has felt this encouragement to be overt, Scribe has been all but a tad oblivious. Scribe is thankful that Pastor didn’t have to entice him as Panama does his dog to pee—tickle his balls. That’s the dog’s, not his own.

Having a new kitten in Scribe’s household, he can draw parallels to the effect the absence of Dreadlock Fetus had on the table. The lack of youth lowered the table's energy more than a bit. On the other hand, no one unraveled the toilet paper in the John. The relative dawdling pace of conversation notwithstanding, Gary assured everyone he would catch up with the conversation shortly after everyone departed.

Public Service Announcement: Pastor has in his possession a menagerie of journals of which his wife no longer has use and are available for perusal, collages, or the full stocking of the periodicals section of a local library. Casual delight is for the taking from riveting pages of sundry titles like Diabetes Daily, Blue Cheese Quarterly, Miniature Donkey Talk, Girls and Corpses, Ferret Fetish, Portable Restroom Operator, Sewing News, Fencepost, The Croquette Gazette, Potato Review, and Lighthouse Digest, most of these being real titles. They are for the asking at a meager pittance of a Xanex and/or 15-year old scotch—quality or expiration dates inconsequential.

A special shout-out for Panama's appearance after a material absence. By his own narrative, he reenacts Vasco de Gama’s life obstacles with each expedition from the far-off shire of Delray Beach to partake in goblets of reduced-calorie ale with his mates. The valor and ardor he invests in each day of attendance do not go unnoticed.

With that, the Table 14 mantra for the week is: I’d rather go to the club.

11/18/2016

Attendees: Ant-ny, Dreadlock Fetus, Pastor, Scribe, Silent Bob, Solomon, Wimmer and newcomer New York Mitch.

Alas, the meeting commenced straight away on an inauspicious foot with Scribe in Pastor’s seat, prompting a glare making him puddley in the boxers. There is only one rule at the table that completely changes at least every 15 minutes—don’t sit in the Pastor’s seat. Silent Bob asked the Pastor if he wanted to invoke Medicare Part G upon Scribe, but Pastor considered it an ineffectual gesture given that, according to Silent Bob, 10% of the table is statistically dead.

DF’s (a.k.a. Grand Master Samurai Flash or Bruce Leroy) nightly budget for bringing his al dente noodle to the spaghetti house is $100 per night (an airbnb.com exclusive). Scribe would like to point out that DF may want to reconsider his spending arrangement in light of a Youngstown Ohio woman willing to engage in friendly bandicooting for $60 and a plate of nachos. Always entrepreneurial and seeing commission opportunities, Solomon wasted no time advertising that his cousin’s father’s son’s scout leader’s goomah’s ferret’s eurologist is Donald Trump’s social media director, possibly soon to be seeking earning opportunities. Pastor, awaiting the end of the 2020 election to close his next deal, remained unfazed of DF’s significant mugambo budget, having bigly comparable experience in his old panel van using Bit-O-Honey and a menstrual cycle costume as bait. For good measure, DF reminded pastor of the subtle distinction between a connoisseur and a curmudgeon. Notwithstanding, a grand layer of suspicion of Pastor draped the table when it appeared the first engine he ever saw was ostensibly a picture on Solomon’s iThing.

The table hit DEFCON 1 when an unsuspecting victim three tables away lit a cigarette. Pastor, with Solomon’s aid, cast an evil spell on him. He is now at the New River Community Mental Health Center playing with a train, his life goal to stuff a square piece into a triangular hole. Should this two-legged smoke bomb reappear at SPRB, the ante will be upped to transform him to stone in the form of an armless Dom Deluise riding a tortoise.

At exactly 5:43 PM, the one rule at the table became (for four minutes) that one may openly speak effeminately at presuming said one has a penis in his mouth and actively watches Madam Secretary.

DF seems to be attempting to go to the boneyard on one of his airbnbn conquests with  “lady” Pastor saw get bat mitzvahed last weekend. He is considering entering the Trump Protester Jobs Program to fund his extensive exploits. Sho ‘nuff!

In closing, a reminder of the daily table’s meditation mantra for the week: Only angels have wings.