Glen Tenning sat in his hydraglide Thaeroeola operators’ chair. He pressed his fingertips together until they formed a tent of his hands. The triangle of the tent framed his nose. His nose was running, slightly. His nostrils and the bountiful forestation therein detected a trickle of mucous. It was too small to wipe but too big to ignore. Hell in nose. Until Glenn was distracted by something equally as profound as his own nose. His fingers did thus de-tent themselves.
Glenn fixed his gaze upon the computer monitor that didth thot bugth before him. He bowed, almost inperceptibly (certainly unconsciously) and left his dry and peeling fingers upon his septic disaster of a keyboard. Glenn began to twitch.
Glenn called a halt to all operations. There was much screeching of wheels and cursing of operators. All expressitious movements, aside from baseline requirements, lay still. Thoughts arose and dissipated. Heart Rate dropped and evened out. Fucking areshole shitburger fuck ceiling.
Glenn did then pollute his pants with the most verdant of invisible delights.
