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.
And flies
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