Invasion Of The Body Attackers

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They’re here I tell ya, you must believe me! If you can’t trust a blogger who can you trust?

A doctor?

Of course not. That would mean that you’d have to put your trust in someone who’s known for taking the hypocritical oath? Do you really wanna intrust your safety and that of your body to someone who dabbles in medical hypocrisy?

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I should say not, especially when I (an almost respected blogger from WordPress) am about to tell you that…

WE’RE BEING INVADED BY ALIEN CREATURES FROM OUTER SPACE!

That’s right, alien creatures that fly, have lots and lots of eyes, way too many legs and who have antennae to help them communicate with, Orson— their widely (literally) acknowledged extraterrestrial leader.

Reference—Mork & Mindy, circa 1978.

Of course, science would have us all believe that they’re nothing more than creepy crawley insects. Creepy crawley insects? Who do these scientist think they’re kidding?

I saw Starship Troopers…They’re aliens!

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Now I ask you, do you think insects look like they really belong here on earth? Of course you don’t. And you know why?

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Because—other than Doogy Howser in that awful looking long leather coat—insects don’t look as good as us.

Truth is, they’re actually universal rejects? It’s true. Alien species from other planets sent here—JUST TO BUG US.

Arnie, from Elmer’s Tire Shop, told me all about it.

He say’s it’s all part of Plan 9 from Outer Space. Plan 8 from Outer Space apparently went bad when they invaded the moon by mistake just after The Big Bang Theory exploded on the scene back in 2007.

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Arnie (when he’s not working on bicycle tires), is an obscure world famous lab coat wearing alien bugologist who works inside a big hole in some mountain just outside of Kansas City.

Similar to other alien bugologist who work in big holes in mountains located all around the world. Or so, Elmer, his boss tells me.

With the possible exception of that little hole in a hill located around back of Cecil’s Burrito Shop down in Guatemala—where bugologist don’t wear lab coats anymore.

They give up wearing lab coats after the great Gary Larson Far Side Comic strike of 87 when Gary started rendering SCIENTIST, instead of drawing alien bugologist as the ones wearing lab jackets.

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I’m almost certain Scientific America endorsement money was involved.

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Anyway, Arnie, tells me that since Tony Stark and The Avengers have taken over the job of protecting our planet, all the best scientific minds have given up on the idea of trying to stop the invasion—and have gone underground to become Morloks.

Leaving just you and I (and some pest control companies) to stop the invasion ourselves—which has become an all out infestation!

My wife and I encountered one of the alien creatures just the other night. Oh, the bloodcurdling screams that came from our bathroom.

Then my wife started to scream too.

Fortunately, though, I was able to regain my composure long enough to go grab a rolled up magazine and wage a life or death battle with the eight legged creature.

That is, before I had to retreat to a Motel 6 over in the next state where (according to Tom Bodett) they leave the light on for ya—just in case of an alien insect attack.

Now I’ve always subscribed to the opinion that anything with more than two legs probably should be regarded as something otherworldly.

Which might explain why I’ve never been attacked from behind by a Chihuahua…or rabid Dogapus—a fictional but usually docile creature towards man.

Hey, it was in Geek Monthly, so its gotta be the truth!

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Anyway, eight legs is just six too many, folks. Which is why I strongly urge you to fear such creatures.

That, and they’re much faster than we are—AND SMALLER.

To be chased by a creature one inch in length—NEARLY 3 CENTIMETERS LONG!—is to know shear terror!

Not to mention, that it forced me to go out and buy a pack of “Depend” absorbant underwear, which I promptly went through all in one night.

But, that was only after my wife found out about the purchase. She hadn’t factored it into our budget yet.

Creepy crawly aliens (and a wife whose budget is out of whack) are not to be trifled with. Particularly, if you live in fear of crawling and flying alien insects—or flying objects hurled by your wife.

Now I suspect that you all probably think I just make this stuff up because I need to write a blog post, or , because maybe you think I’m outta of my mind.

BOTH SUSPICIONS ARE PROBABLY TRUE.

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Which is why the following questions must be asked?

How are the alien insects able to control those flying saucers without any hands? Who made the UFO’s for them—could it be…TESLA? And where can I buy one in a midnight blue?

I mean, if the darn things are going to lose value the instant we fly them off the lot shouldn’t we be able to get one in our favourite colour?

At the very least… one at a Kelley PROJECT BLUE BOOK price?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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About Those Who Brave To Comment And Respond

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With the possible exception of finding spare change under your sofa cushion, and a pair of socks in your sock drawer—without holes in the heels…

Nothing quite puts a smile on a bloggers face more than comments found at the end of one of their posts. Unless you don’t own a computer or a blog—in which case you could probably care less.

As for the rest of us, though, comments at the end of a post are almost always guaranteed to bring a smile to someone’s face.

Even if that someone happens to be, Angus (The Big Mouth Troll) MaGillicutty, who it seems regularly leaves me negative comments.

That’s right, Angus, I’ve got your number—at least until it becomes unlisted.

Yes, it’s nice to know that something as simple as a comment at the bottom of a post will actually bring a smile to someones face.

In fact, the smiles your comments bring to my face are often bigger than that smile which crossed my face when my wife announced to me that she was gonna let me take out the trash from now on…now that the kids have moved out.

Hey, I’ll have less to take out. Yippee!

Anyway, I’ve always felt comments were the real bread and butter of our blogs, and apparently Mrs. Mildred Hogbottom of Terre Haute, Indiana agrees with me.

She writes: “Thank god for the comment section on your blog, Paul. Otherwise, I would have left your WordPress blog years ago!”

Me too Mildred, me too.

You see folks, comments are what make doing a blog so much fun. For example: Just try to imagine my blog without your comments? Now you’re probably thinking, “What blog?”

Exactly!

See, if it weren’t for you writing comments all the time I’d have no reason to write a response. Like saying clothes make the man (unless you happen to be a woman) comments make the blog.

Well, my blog anyway.

And that’s why I can’t wait to see who’s gonna try to ring my bell next. I mean, when I look up and see an orange colored dot up there on my bell You know the one I’m talking about—up in the right-hand corner of your reader.

Because, when that happens—viola! A post is born!

So, is it any wonder then why the visitors to my blog always say, “Paul, the best thing about your blog is the comments section.”

And that’s why I can say with full confidense folks, that our comments yours, mine, and non-bloggers, are without a doubt the best comments ever written in WordPress.com’s…price range.

 

 

 

 

Of Fools, Eggs, And Big Bunnies

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To folks just waking up expecting it to be Easter Sunday, and to those of you waking up, but who perhaps passed away some time ago—GULP there’s a scary thought—boy are you all in for a surprise.

APRIL FOOLS!

Gotcha! Unless, of course, you happen to be one of the zombies I just mentioned. In which case, the shoe might soon be on the other foot—my foot.

Cadavers, what merry pranksters they are, seems there’s nothing they won’t do for a laugh.

Including, threatening to track down a ridiculous blogger for thoughtlessly playing an April Fools joke on them. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha…(nervous laughter)

Ahem, but, changing the subject completely.

I’m willing to bet you all are a lot like me (NO REALLY) and, no doubt, feel that the best April Fools jokes are those we never see coming.

Like me doing this, my first QUALITY post in over four months—or any month for that matter—and on Easter Sunday no less.

But not just any Easter Sunday, an April Fools Easter Sunday.

No fooling.

And what if I were to tell you that there’s this big white fluffy bunny that loves to go around hiding COLORFUL EGGS for kids to find on Easter Sunday—even for we big kids? Would you believe me?

April Fools!

No, really, there really is a big bunny who does that sort of thing!

And I’m not talking about your average garden variety cottontail either, but a real honest to goodness giant, mythical, furry floppy eared, Easter Bunny.

You know…A REAL POOKA.

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Now sometimes this bunny leaves a little surprise hiding inside the eggs. Usually it’s a little something called—real plastic grass.

But, most of the time you’ll find a piece of chocolate in there, or a small toy. And on some occasions, even a hard-boiled egg—which may have sat in the sun a little too long.

I was sick for a week after eating that one.

Ewww!

I know, I know, but if we’re going to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth—even if it means stretching the truth—then we musn’t hold back from telling a whole untruth, right?

Which leads me to this next bit.

Did you know that the Easter Bunny has been known to leave an egg stuffed with money? Its true.

At first, he’d start you out with just a few coins here and there. However, eventually he worked his way up to leaving me wadded up dollar bills.

Then, one year, I found an egg during an Easter egg hunt that had a couple million dollars stuffed inside!

I screamed “Hey ma, look what the Easter Bunny left me!”

Naturally, I was arrested on the spot and taken into custody for lying—by my mom no less! Shortly, thereafter, my mom (and the 2 million dollars) skipped town.

Years later, after the Easter Bunny had her tracked down, she was arrested for embezzelment of holiday funds. She’s currently serving a life sentence in the state pen—the one where they have you go in and feed and clean up after the rabbits.

Of course, not every Easter egg hunt will have the same happy ending.

For instance, this year I woke up to a jewel encrusted Faberge egg—the cost of which, may set the Easter Bunny back for years. But, if he thinks I’m going to return it…

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APRIL FOOLS on him! Oh…and have a Happy Easter everyone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hey, It’s Snowing Here!

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Being a native Californian (oh yeah… we all wear a headdress out here) I’ve become accustomed to experiencing sunshine and temperatures in the warm seventies.

So you can imagine my surprise (well you’ll have to since you’re not me) when this morning I opened up my blog and was greeted by of all things… FALLING SNOW.

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That’s right, real artificial automated falling snow all over my blog!

At first, I tried scraping the white stuff off the monitor with a credit card—because I don’t have a squeegee lying near my computer like many of my readers who live back east.

But as you can see, that was to no avail as the snow continues to fall unabated here.

I even thought we might be having one of those Nor’easters like the New England area sometimes gets—except this might be more like a Nor’wester—until I realized that’s not quite what I’m experiencing either.

So I yelled to my wife that it was snowing all over my blog site and she responded with, “Did you adjust the contrast?”

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After thinking about that response (for all of about two hours) I replied, “Honey, I said it was snowing… NOT THAT MY MONITOR WAS SNOWY!”

It was then I think I was smacked upside my head with an artificial automated snowball, or possibly an old wadded up sock—and one filled with lots of coin.

After the concussion wore off, I began to explore how this phenominon could possibly have happened.

My initial theory was, that WordPress may possibly have been experimenting with mixing high-pressure water and compressed air while operating in near freezing temperatures. If for no other reason than to prove my theory correct.

So when I postulated that idea to my wife she suggested…

“Maybe WordPress doesn’t have a roof and that’s why it’s snowing all over your blog.”

I had to admit her idea made much more sense than mine—due to its simplicity—but I dismissed hers as being architectually flawed. After all, who—other than a sports  franchise—puts up a building without a ceiling for their employees to work in?

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Then I thought about you, my readers, who are always SECOND in my thoughts and who were stuck having to read this post between all the falling fake snowflakes.

I figure it’s difficult enough reading a post written in broken Californian—an extinct all but ancient language never taught in California schools—without having to read between artificial white dots masqurading as snow too.

Suddenly, I had an ephiphany and yelled—HEY HONEY… MAYBE ITS MY DANDRUFF!

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That’s when it hit me…

Another wadded up sock, giving me a complete PAIR of coin-filled socks.

And… an awful headache.

The Great Turkey Shoot Of 1620

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Time for a little history lesson and this being a holiday weekend lets talk turkey.

The year was 1620. The American Revolution was still many years away, but a little known piece of American history was about to unfold.

America was young then and the Thanksgiving holiday had yet to be recognized. However, such was not the case for the Native American Turkey. Thanks to a group of early American paparazzi, they WERE recognized.

The reason for their recognition may have had a little something to do with bullseyes being pinned to their backs by some early American hoodlums called… The Pilgrims.

Nevertheless, we must remember that Pin the Tale on the Donkey was nearly a century away from being legalized in America… and donkeys were in short supply. So, naturally, what other prank could a young misguided Pilgrim play on someone—or on some turkey?

It also should be noted that the The Pilgrim Gang (as they later came to be called) carried boom boom sticks. Native Americans called them Blunderbusses, but they had a better command of the new American-English language—having been here longer.

Now these young Pilgrim hoodlums became so good with there boom boom sticks that they were actually able to hit the broad side of a barn—from only two-feet away.

And without pulling the triggers!

Seeing as they were now wearing bullseyes this became something of a grave concern for the turkeys.

Above The Law

So one day as the turkeys were gathering on Lexington Green, black coated Pilgrims took aim and fired thier boom boom sticks into a crowd of turkeys.

Apparently, the men in black figured out what the triggers were for—and then quickly adopted The Second Amendment.

When all was said and done half a dozen turkeys had fallen—and couldn’t get up.

A warning went out far and wide “The black coats are coming, the black coats are coming!” because turkeys are known for repeating themselves—you know… gobble, gobble.

That’s when the turkeys turned to a young turkey—one Tom by name—to lead them in a revolt.

The turkeys then followed Tom the Turkey up a hill where he began to gobble, gobble—in turkey of course…

“I regret that I have but one life to give!”

Well, the next thing you know those trigger happy black coats fired on Tom the Turkey, and there he gave that one life because turkeys (unlike cats) only have but one life to give.

Unfortunately, in the process of gobble gobbling… he also gave away the position of all the other turkeys!

Today we still remember The Great Turkey shoot of 1620 and the turkeys who gave their lives—albeit… involuntary.

And so that is why we share our tables with their offspring when we gather to eat on the last Thursday of every November. Oh… and we celebrate and watch football too. But… ALL IN THEIR MEMORY!

Well, that, and it beats the hell out of eating meatloaf again.

So, eat up, and Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

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A New Original Holiday Tale And Its—ALMOST Thrilling Final

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Welcome to Part Two of a new original holiday classic that everyone will be talking about… down at the hobo encampment near the railroad tracks.

“Baxter the Snowman and that Fateful Dance with those Darn Irresponsible Sugarplum Fairies.”

It’s written by a new, but well established, up and coming, utterly BRILLIANT author—who looks remarkably like… well… ME.

Part One of the story introduced us to, Baxter, a partially melted snowman who is living (if you can call it that) on the outskirts of the Egyptian Desert.

One Christmas Eve he encounters three Sugarplum Fairies who are anything but sugar and spice and everything nice.

They ask Baxter to help them in funding their quest to find “The Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik” and in return, they promised him a portion of the fabled snowball to replace his current languidly melting lower torso.

All Roads Lead To The Kitchen

As you may recall, the Sacred Snowball is supposedly made of Folgers Instant Crystals, “They’re magically delicious and melt in your coffee… NOT IN YOUR SAND.”

We pick up our story with the ANIMATED Tim Burton now narrating—without having to croon any songs… because he can’t sing a lick.

Take it away, Tim!

Huh? Oh, yeah, right. Let me see… where were we now? Oh yes, I remember.

So without further adieu I present to you, one Dickens of a Christmas Story—Uh.. Part Two.

Baxter (now a slowly liquefying snowman), is telling three odious Sugarplum Fairies that he barely remembers the fable of the sacred snowball, but that his mother sometimes would read about it to him as he was drifting off to sleep—back when he was but a small snowflake in his mothers eye.

Baxter, however, is unaware that the mischievous trio of fairies that he’s encountered were actually fired by Local Fairies Union 79 for dancing poorly without a license.

And, they’ve been using the fable of the “Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik” as part of a nefarious ponzi scheme they hatched to defraud people (and snowmen) out of all their worldly goods.

Except items… Made in China.

In fact, the local nomad news recently reported that a Mongolian camel dealer by the name of, Herman T. Zidlemeyer, had actually ran into the three crafty old fairies while he was crossing the desert on a horse with no name.

He said the three claimed an uber driver left them stranded out there with only a snowballs chance in hell of escaping the desert heat.

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As luck would have it, they just happened to have a snowball—The Famed Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik! They swapped the great snowball with Zidlemeyer for his horse—who shall still remain nameless.

Zidlemeyer barely crawled back home to his wife who, recognizing the fabled snowball’s value—that of being totally worthless, except for when being used as a MacGuffin in a Christmas fable—told her husband to put it out on the porch of their yurt—or tent.

There, overnight, it melted and eventually became a great puddle.

Today the puddle is better known as “The Oasis of Balderdash.” Of course, it could have been much worse for Zedlemeyer—you could lose your yurt in a deal like that!

Anyway, Baxter, also suffered from brain freezes (a condition not uncommon to snowmen), and he couldn’t remember anything about the nomad news report concerning the Zedlemeyers.

So, wanting to help the LITTLE WINGED HARPIES (Uh… I mean, fairies), Baxter slipped over to an ATM at the “First Dust and Loan of Jeruselum” and fortunately, not having to deal with a frozen account, was able to withdraw every single penny (and married ones too) from his savings—leaving only nickles, dimes, and quarters to his name…

And fifty thousand shares of Frigidaire stock, which at the time, were going for $900.00 a share.

The three (wicked) little fairies were unable to contain their joy at having pulled off a fast one on a (poor but living comfortably) handicapped snowman. So much so, that they made a fateful mistake. They began break-dancing—something no licensed Sugarplum Fairy would ever be caught DEAD doing.

ALIVE, perhaps? But DEAD? No.

However, Baxter, not known for his dancing skills (what snowman is, after all, they don’t have legs, unless perhaps, they’re named Frosty), tried to join in and dance with the larcenous trio of fairies. That’s when Santa Claus came flying in—DOING 95 IN A 35 MILE PER HOUR ZONE!

Naturally, the cops, who were hot on his tail, swooped right in and arrested the whole lot of em—Baxter, the fairies (who were trying to spin away from justice), and old lead foot himself—Santa Claus.

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Baxter, was later released on his own recognizance, when it became clear that he couldn’t stand the heat. Even got his corncob pipe from L.L. Bean—BECAUSE SANTA DELIVERS.

Santa? Oh he got off for good behavior.

Well, you didn’t expect a group of elves to go and claim that they saw their bosses name on THE NAUGHTY LIST… did you?

As for those three nefarious Sugarplum Fairies… well they weren’t so lucky.

Seems there was this young pregnant woman riding on a donkey, with her husband walking along side.

There they were, the two of them, in the middle of the night no less, looking for a hotel—or so they claimed. Instead, they managed to bed down in a nearby manger.

The unscrupulous Sugarplum Fairies actually tried to pin this tale on the donkey—dummies. Fortunately, the cops weren’t buying their… FAIRY TALE.

But you will… won’t you?

 

A New Original Holiday Tale—That’s Almost Finished

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The most wonderful time of the year is nearly upon us again. That time of year when life-affirming stories celebrate the spirit of the holidays, warm our hearts, and fill us with good cheer—like that spiked pumpkin spice latte I had the other night—and then are either read or watched for the umpteenth time.

Stories like… A Christmas Carol (all 218 versions!), Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, and that all-time classic…

“Baxter… the Snowman and that Fateful Dance With Those Darn Irresponsible Sugarplum Fairies.”

Now I know what you’re probably going to say. You’re going to say “Oh yeah, yeah I remember… BAXTER THE SNOWMAN AND THAT FATEFUL DANCE WITH THOSE DARN IRRESPONSIBLE SUGARPLUM FAIRIES?”

“Paul, what in the world was in that pumpkin spiced latte?”

Well, I don’t rightly know, but I wanna thank you for referencing the story in bold-type lettering—though it really wasn’t necessary.

I mean, any day now there’s bound to be a audio book version of this blog post at Barnes & Noble.

And just in time for the holidays too. They might even hire Maggie Simpson of “The Simpsons” to read it—MAKING IT A REAL STOCKING-STUFFER!—and an absolute must for your whole (blended) family.

However, none of that is important now—that is, until the cash starts rolling in—but what is important is that this story never has been a novel, movie adaptation, nor holiday television special—filled with plenty of (before November) holiday commercials—and yet, it’s still destined to become an instant yuletide classic.

Our story begins on Christmas Eve around 5 BC just outside a little town on the edge of the Egyptian Desert—a tad east of Toledo, Ohio.

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There, we find a partial snowman by the name of Baxter, melting in a small pile of snow. He’s staring up into the night sky in hopes that the big red elf known as, Santa Claus, will be bringing him a corncob pipe—its been on back order from L.L. Bean for quite some time now.

Suddenly, this streaking bright object appears to race across the Eastern sky.

Why it’s Santa Claus!

And what’s this? Why he’s being followed by the Nomadic Air Patrol—uh, I think maybe we should leave it there for now. No point in making the story worse by sticking around to see Santa get a speeding ticket.

This is where three Sugarplum Fairies of ill-repute appeared out of nowhere—more likely from somewhere.

They glide up to Baxter, and begin telling him that they are on a quest for the “Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik.”

They ask Baxter to help them in securing funding for an expedition to search for the great snowball, and upon finding it they will happily let him have some of it for the bottom have of his melting torso.

They tell him that the great snowball is magically made from Folgers Instant Crystals and that the dark crystals only melt when sprinkled into coffee. They say that since he’s a snowman and that snowmen don’t drink or swim in coffee… he would probably be set for life!

That’s a good story.

But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow—or possibly three or four more days—for the ALMOST thrilling final.

That’s because, being a complete dunderhead, I accidentally pressed publish before finishing the story and now I need time to write part two of the tale.

Of course, as many of you know, its National Novel Writing Month, and you are given until the end of November to finish a 50,000 word novel.

And I’ve only written, lets see, one, two, three, four… five… five hundred or so words! THAT’S IT, JUST FIVE HUNDRED OR SO WORDS?

Maybe I’d better stick to writing a two-part post this time and save the writing of that 50,000 word novel for November of next year.

 

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Men: Beware Of Having Adoring Eyes

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Are you the proud owner of a wife, or significant other? Well I am, and my significant other has just gotten done reminding me that I don’t own her.

“Well, you don’t own me! No one owns anybody.”

“I know that now, but can I finish writing this post?”

“I don’t know… can you?”

“Without interruptions?”

“Far be it from me to stop you.”

“Thank you, dear.”

As I was saying, I adore my significant other just as I am sure you, my readers, adore your (perhaps, ON LOAN) significant other.

However, beware if you should ever get caught ogiling your significant other with adoring eyes.

“Like you did the other night at that party when I caught you undressing me with your eyes?”

“Yes, dear, just like the other night. But, if you remember I did apologize for my ogling you.”

“You looked like a dear caught in the headlights.”

“Guilty as charged. However, I still don’t understand what I did that was so wrong? I mean, what’s wrong with a man sneaking a peek at his wife’s legs every so often?”

“What’s wrong with it, what’s wrong with it? You had me concerned that I had a tear in my stockings!”

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t stop staring. I was like a moth drawn to the flame. YOU WERE GORGEOUS!”

“WERE? Whaddya mean, were?”

“I mean…uh?”

“You mean to say you’re not sure?”

“Well of course I’m sure.”

“And all you can do is stand there stammering?”

“Well uh… uh… well… yeah.”

“Just like that, and what did I say to you?”

“You said… STOP STARING AT ME LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT, WE’RE IN PUBLIC, DUMMY!”

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“Exactly!”

“But honey… you reduced me into some kind of blithering idiot!”

“You did that to yourself.”

“Well yeah, but I didn’t see you as a piece of meat… I saw you with brains too.”

“That’s it! That’s what you said. You said that I had brains too!”

“”Well you do, don’t you?”

“Of course, but it makes me wonder if you do, though?”

“Huh?”

“Men. You’re so clueless at times.”

“I’m not clueless.”

“See what I mean?”

“Huh?”

“Clueless.”

“But dear, you made me feel like a complete fool. It was like the ground underneath me just magically opened up and I couldn’t help but fall in. Now that I think about it, I’m not entirely sure I wasn’t shoved in?”

“Well, you deserved it.”

“I did not!”

“DID TOO. Looking at me… with goo-goo eyes no less.”

“I don’t think I was deserved to be ditched, though—in a manner of speaking. All I was trying to do was be your Lothario for the evening, and it was like you turned me into a corpse!”

“MEN… you’re all alike. Filthy lustful beasts.”

“That’s not true, I’m attracted to your mind.”

“Was it walking around in stockings and wearing heels?”

“Oh, I admit I might have been a little transparent the other night, and yes, I was initially attracted to your physical beauty, but once I fell in love with you I ceased being like all those young male troglodytes and evolved into…”

“AN OLD MALE TROGLODYTE?”

“That’s not fair, which is why I wanted to write this post. To tell you, and everyone else, how much I love you. And, that I’ve never lost my fascination with your MIND. Whaddya think of my post now, huh?”

“I think you need to stop staring at my backside in public.”

“But honey, dumpling, sweetheart… I’M TRYING!”

“I know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’re trying… TRYING MY PATIENCE!”

“Oh for goodness sakes, I give up. YOU WIN. Point, game, MATCH!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You Are Now Reading The Most Renowned Blog In The World

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One of the benefits of occasionally vanishing from the WordPress blogroll is that I am often able to return stealthy and totally unnoticed. Probably because nobody knew where the hell I went in the first place—not that any of you would miss anything, mind you.

However, recently upon my latest return, I was gobsmacked to find that during my most recent absence, my blog “In My Cluttered Attic” was named “Most Popular Blog In The World.”

By none other than “In My Cluttered Attic”!

Not bad wouldn’t you say for a blog whose last post was way back on July 31st?

Now having one’s blog revered and accepted in over 532 lands is really quite gratifying—if only it were true.

However, I do have a blog that is revered in more than 193 or so countries—which sounds even less awesome—AND TOO… IS A TOTAL LIE.

That’s why I’m going stick to my initial claim of being revered and accepted in 532 lands, instead of 531.

But that’s only because Kim Jong Un of North Korea can’t see eye-to-eye with me—on account of his being too short.

His puny blog is the pits anyway. Just ask anyone who’s read it? If you can find anyone who’s read it.

Neverheless, I think it’s truly amazing the number of folks—more than 7 billion strong now—not counting my Uncle Ethel (not his real name… it’s really Mildred)—who wake up every day and race to their computers to bring up “In My Cluttered Attic” just so they can catch what’s going on up in my head.

And some days, they even catch me in my RIGHT mind!

Now naturally, this kind of (deceitful) fame might go straight to some people’s heads, but not me.

No, in my case this kind of artificial immortality is customarily met at the entrance to my mind with an untidy mess—which masquerads as unfiltered clutter between the ears.

Such is the medley of chaos that fills my cranium on a regular basis, that it prevents additional narcissism (like the above-mentioned bogus honor) from ever having a chance to enter my head.

That’s why I wrote this post. Who better to sing my bodacious blog’s praises?

So, not being one to blow my own trumpet—seeing as I can’t play one single note on a trumpet… but just let me go near a kazoo AND YOU MIGHT LOSE YOUR HEARING—I decided to spend the last three months searching the globe for people who could sing the praises of my blog for me.

Is it my fault no one in the world can carry a tune?

And because of an irrational fear of flying (without the use of an airplane), and ticket prices being what they are—plus my not being under contract by Marvel to portray any kind of flying superhero—I was unable to make the afore mentioned trip around the world.

That, and my wife ordered me not to set foot out of the house—with any of our credit cards.

So, armed with nothing but a wallet full of small bits of worthless paper, except for my official “Junior Birdman’s Astronaut Card” (sent to me from Battle Creek, Michigan, back when I was five) I felt permanently grounded.

Then something miraculous happened.

A flood of endorsements started arriving on my doorstep—and the mailman swore they better be emails from now on, or else this post about the worlds most popular blog “In My Cluttered Attic” might have gone kaput.

Why just look at some of the glowing testimonials that I’ve (ahem) received!

“Never have I read a greater pile of twaddle than what I regularly find posted in ‘In My Cluttered Attic’ and I’ve been dead for nearly Two-Hundred and Fifty years! Signed: Ben Franklin

Twaddle, that’s a good thing, right?

Then there’s this little gem.

PinsDaddy

“Children of the night, take a bite out of ‘In My Cluttered Attic’ and you’ll see the light.” Your Friend: Count Dracula

How bout that… a real live count!

Of course, ordinary folks have written to me too.

“Hi, Mr. Attic, its John Smith. Read you all the time. Anyway, I was just wondering if you found the time yet to write that request for an extension?”

“You know the one I’m talking about? In regards the discussion we had concerning the failure to pay your taxes.” Yours: John Smith, IRS

Whoops, how in the world did that get in there? Excuse me won’t you?

Seems, I have to go write a little “Dear John” post.

 

 

 

 

 

WordPress, My Followers, And Paper Shredders

 

I know. It’s been a while since I last wrote about something, huh? So how’s this work again? Wait, I think I remember now.

I write this small (but tall) tale, one which no one else is able to identify with and I then delibrately change the direction of my story. This I do as a substitute for a plot twist whenever I’m working without a plot—which is practically every post.

I then infuse the narration with what I feel passes for humor—so far, 1,602 kinds and counting— and then the laugh meter say’s, no hits recorded.

Maybe it’s broke?

Still, I’ve published another post gets published, and that’s all that matters—unless you’re a WordPress employee in charge of making sure none of my posts ever see the light of day.

And, should one of my posts ever (accidentally) make their Discover page I suspect the employee put in charge of preventing that kind of fopah would probably attempt to leap off of a window ledge.

Possibly on the ground floor of his or her apartment, unless they live in a multi-story dwelling—then all bets are off.

That’s because, “Automattic” (the San Francisco office of WordPress) recently closed their doors. Seems their employees have been working from home so much of late that they didn’t need an office anymore.

Or, maybe it’s because so many of my posts have been seeing the light of day, so much so that WordPress felt they had to save face by closing their office doors.

I can dream, can’t I?

Nevertheless, I have had a few comments of late (too few to mention), saying how much I’m missed by my followers and that they hope I will soon write again.

As a result of this (encouraging) revelation, I am now conducting a thorough investigation to see if any of these wonderful folks are on my payroll—which might result in there getting a raise. That is, if I do have a payroll?

However, if they don’t happen to be on my payroll (still looking into that one), and seeing how much of what I do write about here (well all of what I write about here) barely passes for little more than a ridiculous take on nothing of consequence, I can only assume that these folks have an empty paper shredder in need of something to consume.

Hmm… could account for why my followers miss me?

Nah, paper shredders don’t get hungry… do they?