Mission Statement

I got a girl named Rama Lama, Rama Lama Ding Dong. - The Edsels

I stand here, before you, cloaked only in equivocal obfuscatory abstruseness.  Unstuck goals yet unreached from increasingly chaotic geneses.  Truth in advertising.  A picture is worth a thousand words.  Above see there, it is. 

Muggings unknown and successes legendary.  Chronologically incoherent, I loaf thruward, unbored by dizzy spells.  Nuance-saturated paralysis device untampered. 

Who wants some bad poetry? 

There is a strip mall on Old Newbrick Road, on the corner, sandwiched between South Main Street and the park.  Sandwich shop, book store, sporting goods, electronics store.  The ones you see in every city and large town from Atlantic to Pacific; each store with its own branded facade, grafted onto a continuous prefabricated beige stucco wall.  As I took an exploratory stroll through my new neighborhood (when it was new to me), I came across the strip mall quite soon.  Approaching the sandwich shop – which is the first store when stepping off Main Street – I pushed the reality of the location into the back of my mind, as if to save the space in my brain for more important things.  Almost reflexively, I extrapolated the information I was too bored to collect without much thought, filling in the details from the stock information in my memory.  As one reaches the book store, a fifth storefront leaps out between the book store and the sporting goods store.  Easy to miss when extrapolating.  Impossible to miss when looking.  Maybe eight feet wide and only ten feet high, the brick storefront juts out from the stucco about fourteen inches.  A fire-engine-red latex paint covers the brick, dulling the charm of the store just a bit with processed aesthetic.  The sign above the double glass doors reads, “Super Duper” in retro-futuristic letters that lean optimistically to their right.

Ninjas abound!

Glass shattered, and optimistic letters pivoted downward.  I leaped back instinctively and two blades narrowly missed by plexus.  But I felt a point at my back.  Turning, I found another ninja.  He thrust a flyer at me, insistently.  I shook my head no and opened my mouth to decline, politely, but he pressed the blade into me.  I took the flyer.  It advertised an escort service.  Something about wrestling and peanut brittle too.  "Flood insurance will get you laid," it read. Highly confusing.

"You buy," yelled the ninja as he handed me a preferred customer card, my name already embossed on it.

He shoved me into Super Duper.  I smelled almonds.