Cut was my consanguinity with humanity

Compost thyself!

To what do we owe this order of anarchy, this exclamation of frustration? Well, it was a sentiment - nice or not - overheard (by yours tru*ish*ly) a fortnight ago from a flock of frightening ruffians, a set of men and women discussing the ins-and-outs of a fabulous new pastiche-ology.. one of their own mishmashed and crooked construction; it was a difficult operation, for sure.

You see, I was required to overextended my senses, five and then some, in an attempt to follow relation-making between two, then four, and, after a while and a while, a score or more of literary devices in their collective mental possession. By that point, I was ready for their collective disposal (i.e. words and structure and bathwater be gone!); stuffing a bag of trash never sounded so good. And my comprehension of the situation was, for sure, poor, and, during the episode, my thought processes were stretched far beyond that which is needed for a normal tour of daily duty.. but who am *I* to say NO to such a set of thought experiments; this was surely science of the highest thespian order.

In fact, to the outside observer, I became a man with a 1000-yard stare, the dials of my regular binocular vision twisted so tight that my focus extended X-RAYS straight through the walls of the here-and-now and into the realm of a dark and personal singularity; cut was my consanguinity with humanity. In this way, I looked deep into the froth of my creamy drink, and before I knew it I was daydreaming of a man wishing for the power of phrenological flight; and that man was me, a man whose name escapes and escapes. Whose duty is it to remember these frantic things anyway; it's time for the loosely caped to walk the plank.

BANG!
BANG!BANG!BANG!

It seems that those within earshot - save me - shot themselves in a manner most deadly, indeed; and, at once, a morbid dance began synchronically: several separate and organic entities criss-crossed 'round the room and grew into a pile of spongy and pungent mulch. The directive of the day seemed to be, "Find your match made so-close-to-heaven; you may have already arrived into an ecstatic eternity (and a wet version at that)!" The BANGS I could not ignore, of course; so, my focus withdrew from my glass and returned to the floor. I know now, and I'll know it forevermore, that I've never seen reds so red and blues so foolish. And the insane make me uncomfortable, my truest thought of the day.

At no time did I turn fully towards the limp blossom of bodies; it seemed unnecessary and, even, uncouth, to do so. And as such, it was only appropriate to look down upon them at an obtuse angle and with an obtuse sense of justice. The optic engines of periphery ran the show, and they were overjoyed by the rustic opportunity; they provided me with the visual framework of everything I needed to know, and my starburst and ever-indecent sense of decency filled in the everything-I-WANTED-to-know details. Ultimately, I thought, "Congratulations are in order; you've bent to the will of the people!", and shrugged upwards at an unprecedented pace - how brave and bold of me - and with a force of several uncaring atmospheres.

In short, I saw that the original meme took on a life of its own - irony is a friend of the fierce - and I knew it was the right thing to do.