Niebla en el regazo del desierto de sudoeste

Virtual Heimlich

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Drum Circles, Explained?

In the extension of self-reflexivity by percussion participants, any cultural references are veritably steamrolled by the facilitation of exhibition-attention/psychosocial projections.

In this Multicollinearity, deliberate response biases are evident in the allocation of excuses that range from the defensive “musical” to the self-righteous “geo-cultural.”

Behavioural Components of Attitude notwithstanding, the psychological proximity of cohorts only reinforces the Constitutive Definition of false empowerment.

This Discriminate Analysis illustrates and thus verifies the apparent social construct of “Choking the Proverbial Chicken.”

AWOL Secretary: Live and Let Punge

Bond always had the utmost respect for Moneypenny. Though they often flirted harmlessly with each other, he always admired her taste, her style, charm and consummate professionalism. He imagined that she held him in the same regard, and in that, they shared a bond (no pun intended).

So when Bond was overseas under deep cover, it brought him great dismay to hear the news of Moneypenny getting knocked up by Dan DeGlann. The vile DeGlann was no superagent of SPECTRE like Blofeld, nor was he a shady operative of the BubbaCabal like John Iddiott. His position in the world held no prestige, for he was a petty propagandist, churning out not screeds of any particular ideology, but empty, piss-arse, important-feeling words, ever-changing as the winds blow.
That’s right. Moneypenny got preggers by a pervy berk -- a right common tossbag hack.

What the hell was Moneypenny thinking, mulled Bond. DeGlann’s naff reputation in the intel community was an open joke, a dishonourable one of which he thought she was well aware. Bond was baffled, and being incommunicado, could only silently ponder the reasoning behind all of it.

Hmmm.
Reasoning. There was no reasoning... no logic, no sensible advantage to parlay in this move. Did M know about this?

As months passed, Bond gave this mystery less and less concern, though it did remain crouched in the back of his mind.

Eventually, Moneypenny intel came down the pipeline while Bond was stationed at Vyras Kambarys. It seems that she bore a son but did not remain with DeGlann, opting to raise the child on her own.
Well, that certainly made some sense, considering the sire’s lack of character. But this incomplete debriefing and the questions it raised nagged at Bond’s need for closure, forcing him to posit various theories as to what happened.
Had there been some torrid affair, or a one-time romp in which she knew not of DeGlann’s past shames? Maybe her biological clock was clamouring and he was the most proximate donor. Perhaps some combination thereof?
Though he could speculate all he wished, Bond knew he would never have the full story.


EPILOGUE: Eight years later, on assignment in Old Town Tbilisi, Bond strolls into a small café and stops short. Seated at a small table are Moneypenny and a tow-headed, wide-eyed boy.
“Bond, how are you? How have you been?” Her eyes beamed; the question, sincere.
“Oh, well, quite busy, as you must imagine... erm... very good, thank you.” His cheeks flushed, the back of his neck burned. So much to ask, yet all so terribly awkward. He hemmed and hawed, much out of character, trying to go on his merry way.
Moneypenny insisted on introducing her young son to Agent Bond.
Bond stood stiffly, replying in measured tones, “I am glad to make your acquaintance.”
The boy pushed his crayons and paper away from himself, looked up, cocked his head and said, “You have the same name as me.”

CSI: Heritageville -- Psych!

The inherent risks of spiritual forensics are all too obvious when witnessing the timeless battle between Those Who Could Know Better But Won’t versus Those That Should Know Better But Don’t: Petty, garden-variety autocrats push the buttons of petty, garden-variety ‘rebels’ and vice versa in a watered-down yin-yang ploy of marxoid oneupmanship.

Our man cringes at the sight of the puerile, pubescent, defiant id aggressively coupled with the equally puerile, overeager expedience of the tribunal superego.

The crime? Sacrificing the potential of constructive input at the expense of ego-driven, point-hungry games of ‘Gotcha.’