Where In The World?

You know what gets my goat? Well if you do, please let me know, because Waldos missing! That’s his name. Waldo! Waldo!

It’s not the first time he’s wondered off, but this time it’s different. Did you know the earth is spinning out of control? You did! Well why didn’t you tell me? I should never have left him outside by himself.

That tax auditor on the other hand, is another matter. I never should have let him in!

What with the earth spinning out of the control at 1,038 miles per hour, Waldo is probably off in some far-flung country by now. For all I know, he could be up a tree somewhere. Thanks to gravity, I at least won’t have to go rent a space shuttle to go find him.

With the world in such chaos why did it have to be my Waldo out there absorbing frequent flyer miles? Why couldn’t it have been Isis, Al Qaeda, or the Republican Congress spinning out of control around the globe? Oh wait a minute… I think they are!

I’d like to know what smart guy had the bright idea to start rotating this big blue marble like some kind of basketball in the first place? What in the world was he thinking? Didn’t it ever occur to him that we have enough dizzy people in the world already? Vlad, Kim Jong, and Justin Bieber just to name a few.

Now he’s went and got my goat.

With the planet in a whirl; we have air pollution from Sulfer oxides, Nitrogen oxides, Carbon monoxide, and Waldo outside! Thank goodness he doesn’t produce much methane gas.

All around the world garbage is flying about. Tell me that’s not because we’re turning round and round. Well that, and people can’t seem to walk a few extra steps to dump their trash. Are they waiting for earth to spin them towards a trash can?

I hope Waldo is not in the Middle East, have you seen the mess over there? It’s not a fit place for man or beast right now. I hate to think of Waldo having to butt heads with those butthead’s. What a headache.

All I know, is my goat is on the lamb. Where’s Waldo?

Advertisement

A Letter Of Warning To Kermit The Frog, From An Admirer

Dear Kermit the Frog:

As a long time fan, and worshiper of all things Muppet, I just thought you should know, some frog is impersonating you.

He’s living down under. No not in Australia, but in the rainforest of Costa Rica, and he is trying to make a big name for himself by telling anyone who will listen that you’re an imposter. I know, the nerve!

I really look up to you Kermit, except when I look down on you. I mean, if you asked me, this frog doesn’t look anything like you. He doesn’t have your commanding presence, noble aristocratic flair, or fleece covered body and ping pong ball eyes!

Oh sure some of us might bear a striking similarity to someone else, perhaps even a famous movie star.

For example; on a good day, I look like Brad Pitt. But for the exception of his facial features and his body, we’d be almost identical.

And have you noticed how the critics, press, and paparazzi always make you stars look bigger than life. But I must admit, when I first met you in Disneyland you were much smaller than I expected. I know I shouldn’t have been surprised. Have you ever met Tom Cruise? Now there’s a big star who’s small.

Anyway, I understand it’s not easy being green, especially in Hollywood. Just look at how many bad Hulk movies they had to make before they found Mark Ruffalo.

But back to you Kermit. I feel as if I’ve really come to know you by watching you closely in all eight of your movies, and other countless television appearances.

I hope you don’t think I’m a stalker or anything, just because I watch your every move through the hidden cameras I had installed in your home by an unscrupulous repair man, who shall remain nameless. I only have your best interest at heart.

But back to this imposter who claims to be you. I found out his real name is Hyalinobatrachium dianae. No its not Italian. I think it might be Argentinian though. I’m not sure, but I’m almost sure, well maybe I’m uncertain, but it could be an alias.

Well why else would he make use of all 26 letters of the alphabet—and then some? See… I may be on something, onto something I mean.

Some biologist going by the name of Brian Kubicki,—if that’s his real name—says he discovered the real Kermit (Hyalinobatrachium dianaehanging) hanging out without another Muppet in sight in that Costa Rican rainforest.

He even makes the claim that you can see the food he eats being digested, because he has a see through stomach. He dubbed him a glass frog. I think the whole thing is preposterous!

If I were you Kermit, I’d be asking Mr. Kubicki what he’d be doing hanging out in a Costa Rican rainforest, when a big shot biologist like him could have been exploring the more hospitable Rainforest Cafe instead?

Maybe we could discuss filing a possible lawsuit against Mr. Kubicki for defamation of character or something, over some Frog legs and a Merlot.

Oh, don’t get me wrong Kermie, may I call you Kermie? I’m not suggesting in any way that you’re a cannibal.

Courteous Drivers Are Out There, Be Afraid, Be Very, Very Afraid!

The Department of Motor Vehicles goes to great pains to create long lines for all of us to stand in order to obtain a drivers license. I feel that they want our experience at the DMV to be as painful as possible. They require that we all pass a drivers test with an emphasis on our learning to be A COURTEOUS DRIVER!

So, you can imagine our disappointment when we finally do pass that test only to discover, once we hit the road, that many other drivers apparently failed the courteous driver part of the test.

I suspect the Department of Motor Vehicles must have had a busy day (an understatement) and took pity on those drivers and therefore sentenced the rest of us to a lifetime of dealing with them.

Because they will eventually be death of the rest us.

Here’s why. Ready…set…go!

I was driving in the fast lane—a 40 mile per hour zone—just a few miles away from my right hand turn. I’m doing the speed limit and not a single pedestrian in sight.

Suddenly, in my rear-view mirror, up comes Speed Racer. Yeah that Speed Racer, sans his sidekick chimp Chim-Chim, with all the drivers behind him doing  their very best monkey see monkey do imitation riding his bumper. Lets call it six degrees (uh, inches) of separation.

It felt like the Indianapolis 500 with every car jockeying for position to get around me, and me trying to do the speed limit, as the car in front of me was being driven by that world famous little old lady from Pasadena.

Who appeared capable of doing no more than 35 mph.

Refusing to get into the (SLOWER) right hand lane, she was content to stay in my lane. So since I had to get over anyway—and would be risking being rear ended if I stayed in the left lane behind her—I decided to let the old bag stay in the fast lane.

Since she’s courting death anyway I figured why not let Speed and his minions expedite the process!

So, I look to my right and flipped on my right hand signal, thus making my intentions known to all those WAY BACK THERE in the right hand lane. Better known as—the slow lane!

As luck would have it, a blind man—complete with seeing eye dog guiding his car from his drivers lap—who up until now was driving like a snail … do snails drive?—suddenly decided to drive like a bat out of hell and accelerated as if he were driving on the Autobahn.

Like a transformer, his Edsel morphed into a jet, and he cut me off before I could get into the slow lane.

The DMV calls this rude rage.

Once he passed, all the drivers in the cars behind me being impatient, began getting over into the slow lane in hopes of passing me on the right hand side!

Now I was cut off.

I saw my right hand turn looming and floored it, barely squeezing over in front of the raging horde of impatient drivers whose cars had just got out from behind me while moving into the right hand lane.

I ignored all the honking horns that greeted my arrival into, what they must have presumed to be, their lane.

Yay, I’d done it, and just before my turn too!

Just one problem; where in the world did the old geezer of a pedestrian come from and why did he choose this particular moment to apparently enter the crosswalk with the use of a cane.

My conclusion? Assisted suicide by auto.

Thank you, so-called courteous drivers who failed the DMV test, but who became road warriors from hell in what will now be forever known as…

Carmageddon!

No, Not Another Death Star!

I admit I was only suspicious at first; the idea of an evil Empire being bought by Disney? But then it occurred to me; who better than the Disney people. Lets face it; who has all the money, all the power, all the influence, and now—The Force? Folks; DISNEY IS BUILDING ANOTHER DEATH STAR!

Why at this very minute, I’m willing to bet Darth Vader (with his new mouse ears helmet—designed by Disney Imagineers) is thinking up ways to prevent, yet another weakness being identified by the Rebel Alliance, which could result in another Death Star explosion. Think of the insurance risk!

Not to mention the fallout. Heads will roll… and they might be ours. But, he really should talk to Farmers.

Right now I suspect that more than a few of you out there are thinking, “this guy is probably more than a little crazy.” And I’m guessing the rest of you—are absolutely certain of it!

However, I feel it my responsibility to warn all of the human-race of an impending doom—with the possible exception of ISIS, Al Qaeda, and Marty Gunther—who used to beat me up all the time throughout the fourth grade after school.

When George Lucas first started running the Star Wars Empire, he didn’t have the kind of money, power, and influence required to build a powerful intergalactic juggernaut capable of universal mass destruction. This was no doubt due to his wanting to build Lucas Ranch in Marin County instead.

So he had to borrow money from a movie studio in Hollywood. You’ve heard of Hollywood? Well it used to be a planet, still is, only now its known as Planet Hollywood. Anyway,  they know a thing or two about promoting an idea—that’s not yet a reality.

Then one day the Disney Empire, who has its fingers into everything (and apparently connections with former President Ronald Regan, who dreamed up the Star Wars defense system-which was to act from space in our defense), decided to build a Star Wars ride. George must have been duped into giving his blessings.

Well one thing led to another, but I have no idea what either of those things are. So I guess I can’t talk about them now, because they have no bearing on this subject what so ever.

But back to the subject of the evil Galactic Empire located in a galaxy far, far away, but coming real soon to a planet near you.

When the real Emperor Palpatine found out that Disney had the rights to open a Star Wars ride in Disneyland, he must have infiltrated the Disney Corporation. The perfect cover, a family destination. Although, that must have been a real neat trick. Have you ver seen how this guy looks? Well there you go.

Anyway, Palpatine had to figure George Lucas must have intrusted the little R2 unit (now owned by Disney) with the technical blueprints for the designing, and building of a real Death Star.

He had to have reasoned, that by capturing R2D2 he could sell a lot of popcorn with the making of another Star Wars movie. So he lured all the old cast members in, with the promise of bit parts, and now he probably has them too!

No opposition to the building of his new massive Death Star. Don’t you see people?

We’ve got to stop them and all the Imperial Storm-Troopers. We have to… hey, what are you guys doing with that straight jacket, and what about that big needle, your not gonna—Oh, Obi Wan, help me, you’re my only hope!

Zzzzzzzzz….

A Letter To My Readers (and from another writer who really knows)

You may have noticed that we here at the attic have been absent for a couple of days (some of the more observant of you will have noted, that this writer has been absent much longer than that). But there is a very good reason for that (not really—the writer is delusional, likely whacked out on drugs, so just HUMOR him, god knows he has no grasp of what humor is).

We are committed here at the attic (most of you felt that should have happened a long time ago) to not serving just any post (another piece of crap) before its time (even more of you feel that time never came, and never will).

Some blogs go for the cheap laugh at the readers expense, but not here (no here the writer goes for the cheap laugh at the expense of your valuable time).

It takes tremendous effort (slacker) to produce a high quality blog (what would he know) at WordPress. And our top notch staff of writer’s here at the attic (just him) wouldn’t have it any other way. Otherwise we’d being doing this for our own gratification. (he’s an egotist!).

After countless hours and months of fruitful work (a few minutes at best), and even more laborious and exhaustive research (like what it took for this post—Nada) we can publish for your enjoyment (he calls reading this enjoyable?) a prodigious (0 or nothing) amount of hysterically funny material for you to read.

We (him and his dog) take great pride here at the attic (couldn’t care less) that you the reader, not be exposed to the usual lame material that passes for what WordPress calls, the best of the best, or dare I say (he did), Freshly Pressed (he’s so jealous of those bloggers).

Now if that’s the sort of stuff you want to read, you’ll not find it here (because he’s clueless. My guess is, he wasn’t paying his comedy writers enough).

The throng of loyal readers who flock to this blog daily (both of you), find that they are frequently met with a blank page (due to his recent frontal lobotomy).

But we understand (he understands nothing) quality does not happen overnight (and here—not at all).

Like a great wine, great writing also takes time (however the grapes don’t know any better, and apparently neither does he), we at the attic take as much time (as he can possibly get away with) as is needed (or before panic sets in over lack of likes and readers) to put a quality piece (of you know what) up for you to read.

So there you have it devoted followers of the attic (intelligent readers who pressed the like button on his blog post, but never bothered to read what he wrote, so that the idiot would come and improve your stats instead of his).

Just a little glimpse into what goes on behind the scenes (snoring) here at the attic, before we (does he have a mouse on his person?) publish a post for your pleasure (more of the same rubbish from this bozo).

So I’m Full Of Hot Air Huh?

So you all think the wind just blows, huh? Yet, every time I see a weather forecast with me (the wind) in it, all you guys can do is apologize to the viewing public for my being an old windbag.

Saying things like, “Its been very blustery the last couple of days, but starting tomorrow we should see the winds finally die down.” Say what!

What am I… a old blow hard? And even if I had been blowing a little too hard for a couple of days, was I really all that bad?  I mean, what are you trying to say about me; “It’s an ill wind that blows no good.”

Now I can understand if you live in the Midwest. I know I’ve made a few enemies there. I admit I have, on occasion, made some bad decisions and hung out with the tornadoes. Yes I know, they’ve kind of GANGED up on you. But you have to admit, every area has undesirables.

At least they weren’t carrying switchblades.

And okay, there are those times where I’ve gotten a little carried away and blew up like a hurricane. But there’s no need for name calling now… is there?

You weather forecasters have become so judgmental.

You blame me for all your viewers allergies acting up. I understand that it can be a real bear on some folks. But consider this: I’m not responsible for all the pollen out there. And if I didn’t blow up a storm or two from time to time, imagine how bad the pollen would get.

Then you guys take to blaming me for fanning the flames whenever there’s a big fire. Did I start the fires? I don’t think so.

Yet some people don’t have a problem using me when they want to promote their books and movies. Like “Inherit the Wind” or the granddaddy of them all, “Gone With the Wind.”

Not only did these people profit from the unauthorized use of my name, namely, (The Wind), but I never received financial compensation either! Also, I never complain about those hitchhiking rain, and snow-storms that ride in on my back do I? However this year they did get a little carried away. Sorry East Coast.

But just saying.

And lets not forget that I’m responsible for those lovely Tradewinds you all seem to enjoy when you go island hopping, or while you’re laying on a beach somewhere.

And how about when your air quality gets bad and the smog settles in. If I didn’t show up and blow all that gook out, don’t you think your lungs would fill up with all those nasty pollutants. I’m just wanting you all to think a little about all the complaining you do about me, I have feelings you know.

So here’s a little wind warning. Go ahead… don’t throw caution to the wind, and lets see which way the wind blows then?

“Champagne Wishes And Caviar Dreams”

A lot of you know Robin Leach for uttering those words. As for the rest of you, you’re no doubt asking “Who the hell is Robin Leach, and what in the world are you talking about?”

Neanderthals!

Early man (better known as, Grog) knew nothing of either champagne, or caviar. Lets be honest here (my last post was about lying); the cave-dwellers didn’t know anything at all. Except maybe a little about dinosaurs, and that has absolutely nothing to do with champagne and caviar.

So class, don’t tell me that champagne has lots of bubbles, and caviar is little more than tiny fish eggs. This will force me to emulate John Houseman in the “The Paper Chase” and say to you, “Text your mother and tell her you are having serious doubts about ever becoming Armen Petrossian.”

For those former students of this class who texted their mother’s, he’s a caviar expert, who happens to look a little like actor John Astin.

So we have eliminated Grog as being the founder of fish eggs, or we have at least not been able to prove that he and Mrs. Grog didn’t patent the discovery of them.

And students, I want you to ponder this for a moment. You have baited your hook, tossed your line—waited patiently for a bite—all in an attempt to catch non-pasteurized roe from the Caspian, or Black Sea. Who in the hell does that? No one from this class!

Oh sure caviar is pretty, but as I stare out at your bewildered faces I sense you haven’t a clue as to how, when, or even who discovered baby Sterlet, Ossetra, Sevruga, and Beluga eggs.

Why, you ask, do I want to know?

Some questions are best left unanswered, but not the question of how caviar became a delicacy, because Iran is the largest producer of the stuff.

Ah-ha! Now I have your attention, don’t I?

When a country like Iran wants the bomb, and has a commodity of fish eggs in high demand on the open market, inquiring minds want to know how an hors d’oeuvre merits such a high price tag, when it taste like yuck?

Sure, the pretentious and wealthy (they’re both the same) want us to feel we are missing out on some special garnish that only snobs (with so-called, acquired taste) would find delicious. But there is more than meets the tongue here, I can assure you.

Why at this very minute, don’t be surprised if North Korea isn’t trying to obtain mother of pearl caviar spoons in order to throw off UN inspectors from tasting tainted caviar, or a caviar substitute not from an endangered sturgeon.

See, I’ve done my homework, now you kids do yours.

Oh, Oh Pinocchio Nose

Come on admit it, you’ve lied. Call it what you will, but you’ve done it. Fibbed, spun a tale, fabricated, exaggerated, beat around the bush, blew smoke up you know what, misled, bent the truth, deceived, falsified, perjured, spilled a little white lie, or otherwise told big windys.

Liar, Liar pants on fire!

Okay, I’ve done it too. In fact, the bubbles are still floating from my mouth from all the soap my mother used for the lies I told.

To this day, I still can’t help but feel that my mother must have worked as a tester for some of the biggest names in the bar-soap business. Dove, Dial, Ivory, Lifebuoy. I think I’ve tried them all.

My mother swore, that if I’d just take my medicine without complaint (oh, that bar of Lava, yuck!) I might one day receive a payment for all that lying.

Mom, I’m still holding out for the residual checks for all that product testing.

Yet, I bet you are as thrilled as I am that none of us ever suffered any affliction the likes of what Pinocchio suffered for lying.

Poor little wooden head, he NOSE all about lying. I mean, to have one’s nose betray you like that — what a curse!

When I was much younger (last year), I used to think Pinocchio’s nose was the result of a birth defect, and not because of some mom menacingly waving her magic wand (a bar of soap) about like some deranged blue fairy.

I worried if the same disorder might befall me for lying!

Years ago I saw how a former friend of mine’s — ever notice how its never someone we’re still friends with — alimony payments grew disproportionate to his income. His lie, was to his wife.

Bet he now wishes his mom had used Irish on his mouth when he was younger.

Of course I’ve seen the reverse effect too. Like when another friend of mine (again, a former friend) lied about his job experience to a new employer, only to see his paycheck increase astronomically in a new found position.

Still, he never embraced that bar of Zest his mom put in his mouth when he tried lying. So much for the thought that, “Liars never prosper and cheaters never win.”

But, my fear about lying was always based on if rather than my nose, what if some other part of my body got effected instead?

I mean, imagine if one of our hands grew to the size of one Mickey Mouse’s hands if we were to tell a lie. It would be so out of proportion with our other hand. And we’d being minus a finger!

On the other hand, if someone ever did call us a liar — imagine what a punch we could land on their diminutive nose!

That thought would help me sleep at night. Not that I’d ever think about taking up lying ever again.

That’s because, those residual checks for all that product testing of soap that I did as a kid for my mom, well, they’ve gotta be coming in the mail soon, right?

Any day now, right mom?

 

An Open Apology To The People Of Earth

Its just possible I may have gotten too big for my britches, quite literally. I now realize I should have taken my wife’s advice, and contacted “Weight Watchers” sooner so that they could have sent out their spies to watch me gain weight, although I don’t know what difference that would have made?

You would think that they would get paid to do more than just watch a person gain weight. But then who am I to judge? Just your inadvertent executioner.

As I said at confession today—to hobo Bob while seated on the lower end of a heavily inclined park bench—I’m guilty of consuming mass quantities of food.

Having ballooned into the absolute HEAVY-WEIGHTED champion of the world I’m feeling guilty—and in so doing am also now responsible for the earths axes tilting off kilter, thus sending earth, and all her inhabitants, hurdling towards the sun.

I would just like to say at this time that I am sorry that I never went on “The Biggest Loser” to drop the spare tire. I regret becoming overweight (an understatement) and having accumulated tons while eating at the ‘all you can eat buffet’ and would just like to apologize for my selfish eating habits, which will apparently be the death of us.

It was never my intention that we should all meet a fiery end like this (although I was thrilled at the prospect of some school bullies getting there’s) by colliding with the sun. But I just couldn’t resist that last slice of chocolate cake that no one else wanted, particularly after I ate it.

In my defense, I couldn’t help myself. I had already done that with the entire box of See’s Candies.

It all started last Thanksgiving.

The turkey (which was the beginning of the end for us all, again I’m sorry) was largely consumed by yours truly. How was I to know the leftovers were meant for the whole family?

But is it my fault that my family suffers from a rare malady called Tryptophan causing them to drift off to sleep prematurely—leaving me all alone in a foul mood for turkey.

And then there was that hot dog eating challenge that I was dared into. No one thought any human-being could possibly consume that many hot dogs and survive. Yet, here I am… well that is until SUNday, when I’m told we’ll all burn up. At least that’s what NASA says.

The Christmas goose was better than I thought it would be. Second helpings led to thirds, fourths, and ultimate consumption of the entire bird. The open-mouth expression on everyone’s face said all I needed to know about their still empty plates, and my weight problem.

Ham for Easter? I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.

And now judgement day has arrived for all of us. My guess is this is some kind of “Farmageddon” that we (I mean, I) can’t eat our way out of. So I’m going to finish POUNDING out this (the very last post) before my last helping of pound cake. Oh the irony!

Guess this will be the last supper.

It’s Terrible Being The Beautiful People—I’m glad I Don’t Have Their Burden

Don’t you sometimes wish you were one of the beautiful people? Unless of course you were one of the beautiful people, in which case you’d feel sorry for their burden.

I know you probably don’t want my pity beautiful people, but its no problem… really.

When I see one of the beautiful people walking down the street, in a magazine, at the movies, or on television, I wish I could feel their pain, but I’m glad I don’t.

It’s said beauty is only skin deep. Of course—any deeper than that and they’d be perfect. Talk about stating the obvious.

I could never feel the burden of perfection though, because there is no burden with perfection, since nobody’s perfect!

Beauty is different, otherwise there would be no “People” magazine covers pointing out the most beautiful people in the world? Or a song by Marilyn Manson called “The Beautiful People” or that group of narcissist in the professional wrestling world who were known as “The Beautiful People.”

Beautiful people come close, but fall just short of perfection.

Imagine running a race and losing by just a fraction of a second instead of being beat by a mile. That couldn’t help but be a totally crushing defeat.

Say after years of meticulous research and experimentation, you were on the verge of a breakthrough in science, one that would give you recognition and gratitude from around the world.

Well you’d be nuts and living in a dream world!

Okay, but for a moment, lets just fantasize that you were such a person…

And at the very last minute you find yourself being upstaged by Alfred E. Neuman of “Mad Magazine” fame,  and he announces the same discovery just before you. You’d be devastated right? Say nothing of being utterly humiliated by the likes of a non-existent goofy-looking and pretentious cartoon character.

Thanks for playing.

Well that’s what happens to the beautiful people. So close, yet so far from being what their plastic surgeon had hoped they’d turn out to be once he was done with their face.

So now, instead of being beautiful and perfect, they have to settle for being uglier than sin, or the average looking people—who are just mile or two below the rest of us in the looks department.

There’s a lesson in all of this, and no its not that being a plastic surgeon makes you sort of like… Dr. Frankenstein.