Choraling: The gloom of glee

Choraling is a favorite pastime of those do-gooders from the land of good posture, bad breath, awkward stage presence, and zealous makeup application. The accumulation of public offenders perpetrating this awful challenge to all that is free and living refer to themselves as clubs of glee (emotive glee, not some old English song form). They forcibly smile while they contort their mouths and project noises in unison from within their netherparts, daring the donkeys to bray, sway, or walk away.

Damn't I rhymed. Their power is even stronger than I thought.

You see, the Factory owners have brought these clubs of glee to "perform" their acts of sadism in public places. They erect small platforms, set up microphones and p.a.'s (usually with automatic fits of feedback), and demand an audience from passersby (this also includes those not passing, but presiding, or performing a function, in a space within earshot). Many animals are unable to discern the true motive of these clubs of glee with their amplified sounds of domination, and they stand their with amiable and placid looks on their faces, believing they enjoy what is descending on them; but, for those who can hear the screeching, the result is one of sheer psychic pain and complete physical captivation. The "audience" is unable to leave until the projected noises from within their netherparts cease to project. Part of what makes this torturous is that your mind is still free to wander, in fact, it is welcomed to amble, as there is very little surface for your mind to grasp. Thus, the more compassionate of the clubs of glee will perform at very high decibel levels, overwhleming longer trains of thought in the waves of aural doom.

"La, la, la, da, di, di, la," is like a panther in a parking lot waiting to pounce on the helpless.

Poor donkey.

Resisting Arrest

The assembly line is pulverizing itself. The donkey parts lie on the floor, leering back at the misshapen belt. There is an ungodly sound of wobbling industrial rubber and unloving metal. The button sees the misshapening, but it can't press itself. This button has morals. How can it override the lack of pressure on its glossy exterior? Would it cease to be a button by doing so? Surely, these and other questions must have been running through the mysterious innards of the button at a time like this. Surely.

I think the world needs more courageous buttons.

Depressing Lag in Production

So, this will brief. There's a chance that I have missed the boat to be read by one or two people (as a total readership), which is a shame. In fact, it is highly probable that I am typing up words that will only be displayed on my screen. I am glad that writing to oneself in public is considered to be less dangerous than speaking to oneself in public.