Boy, howdy! Ain't that Lynda Allen a pure work of art? Graceless and tactless, too, without a milliliter [1] of humanness. Sorry... that last is not entirely correct. While it is true that she and her adult-looking accomplices are devoid of adult thought processes, they are filled with the most perverse and childish manifestations of aberrant [2] thoughts and actions.
As ample illustration, take Lynda's observed actions at 7:14 a.m. last Saturday morning. Completely within her predictable limitations, she turned the yard radio on right after 7:00 a.m. instead of waiting for 8:00 like a good little girl. For some unintelligible reason, she took into her otherwise empty head the notion that I must be at home, in bed, and trying to sleep at such an early hour. Well, she was right on two points, but sleeping was an "iffy" concept with the infernal racket she was making next door.
Returning to the point, at 7:12 the radio station began playing a song with which she must be intimately acquainted, being a smoker and all. (Her laugh - better described as a gravelly cackle, eerily discomfitting in its emission, like fingernails on a chalkboard - confirms it.) The song's lyrics end with five syllables emphasized by high and rising notes - "Smoke... Gets... In... Your... Eyes!" A thought grabbed onto her puny-to-nonexistent mental capacities, overwhelmed them, and tempted her with, "On the last and highest note, turn up the volume really, Really LOUD. Make sure your bastard neighbor is awake!"
Two minutes later, the song's ending crescendo began. (During the previous night, Lynda's outdoor rock speaker, which is mounted just over the fence, was turned toward my house, as in this post.) In the one-beat pause between "Your" and "Eyes!" Lynda spun the volume knob clockwise, causing the greatly amplified voice to reach the hospital on Yosemite Avenue a half-mile away - and everywhere in between. The decibel reading went off the charts. Every sound, but one, ceased to exist. Deafened and disoriented birds in Lynda's fruitless mulberry tree twittered and fluttered ineffectually [3].
Here is the annotated screen capture from an .mp3 editor program, which illustrates the purposeful manipulation.
The spinning world stood still momentarily while Lynda Allen puckered up, insinuated [4] her **censored** lips into the appropriate anatomical crevice, and tried vigorously to blow her vile smoke up my ass. (Hint: Keep practicing on yourself or your two live-ins a while longer, dearie. {shrug} Just sayin'...)
Immediately after the final note, the volume (or, sound pressure level) was turned way, way down and the rock speaker was again turned more-or-less away from my house. Lynda has wordlessly and unmistakeably answered every conceivable question about her defective [5] mental state. Her self-destructed brain is emitting smoke from every one of her orifices - eyes, ears, mouth, and lower.
Anyway, I need to "slice" out and save those precious thirty seconds of recorded Mega 100.1. I can listen to it over and over, and play it for anyone else who needs a little convincing of Lynda's instability. So here ya' go, ya' lovable qui*** [6], this song is dedicated to you:
"Blow... Smoke... Up... YOUR... @$$!"
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[1] milliliter (n) one cubic centimeter.
[2] aberration (n) the act of being aberrant (or deviant) esp. from a moral standard or a normal state; unsoundness or disorder of the mind.
[3] ineffectually (adv) not producing the proper or usual effect; futilely.
[4] insinuate (v) to introduce (as oneself) by stealthy, smooth, or artful (artificial, crafty, wily, or sly) means.
[5] defective (adj) markedly subnormal mentally or physically.
[6] **censored**
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