The Tale Of Angus O’ Malley And The Elephant

A short story by Yors Twooly from Svetzerland:

When Angus O’ Malley, was but a small lad living in Dublin, Ireland, he was struck with the thought that one day he would like to write the “Great American Novel.” A novel concept to be sure, for anyone but an American, and especially for that of an Irishman.

But truth be told, Angus was not at first struck by this thought… but by an elephant. You might say, his idea of writing the “Great American Novel” probably became something of an afterthought.

However, this was no ordinary elephant, but rather a large cast iron candle holder—shaped like an elephant. All the same, when one is hit on the head with a large cast iron candle holder shaped like an elephant, the effect is still pretty much the same.

You can well imagine the profound effect the incident had on Angus and his memory—say nothing of his appearance because of his now, lumpy head.

And although Angus O’ Malley made a conscious decision to write the “Great American Novel” that was before the cast iron elephant fell on his head. Apparently, he made an unconscious decision to walk under the shelf the elephant fell from—no doubt leading to further unconsciousness.

Angus O’ Malley was a small lad of 4 foot 2, but that was before the blow on the head left him a diminutive 3 foot 8.

Years went by like a herd of pachyderms, yet always the “Great American Novel” was in the back of his mind—literally. The elephant had stunted not only his growth, but his idea of writing the “Great American Novel.”

Then one night, Angus awoke from a sound sleep to write. He went to his computer and sat at the keyboard only to have the power go out. Undeterred, he grabbed paper and pen and began scribbling in the dark.

He was about to write by the glow of candlelight, when all of a sudden the power returned, and he found himself face to face with the cast iron candle holder in the shape of an elephant. You see, Angus may have forgot, but as anyone can tell you—an elephant never forgets. 

It’s times like these that try a writers patience—and perhaps that of his readers too. Angus was no different, and so he adopted the pen name of, Yors Twooly from Svetzerland, as an alternative to his novel idea—and then went on to write this short story instead.

Because, as you all know by now; no one ever TALKS about the elephant in the room.

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Area 51… Is Not An Isolated Case

Secrets, unexplained and perplexing curiosities, those and more are what make a mystery. There seems to be less and less to explore; other than our own atmosphere full of UFO’s, and space itself.

But, there are still places on this planet that have us scratching our heads, and which still continue to leave us baffled for answers, like this blog sometimes, okay—all the time.

There are people who say that our oceans and deep lakes are the last great riddles on earth. For those who would take issue with that argument, we only need reference the Loch Ness Monster, and the Bermuda Triangle.

And if you feel there are no great enigmas left to conquer on land I need only offer you Big Foot, Roswell, and Area 51?

Speaking of which, the CIA (no, not the Culinary Institute of America… silly) the real CIA, those guys in the black suits and hats, who wear dark sunglasses, that CIA… well they seem to think that the Groom Lake Area, located well within the perimeters of Area 51, is perhaps the biggest place to be nervous about on earth!

Don’t you love it when the CIA is wrong about something?

Because you see, there is another spot, one close to most any man’s heart. A place where the relics of the past, present, and maybe even the future… are stored. Its called, his mind?

Ha, are you kidding! Any woman would tell you that that expanse is surely empty, and devoid of anything of value too.

Don’t you love it when women are wrong about something? But that’s one man’s fantasy for another day.

Yet, there is even more mysterious place to be more nervous about. This place could be a garage, a storage locker, or in my case—a closet.

And there seems to be this great urgency to get at what is inside this closet of mine that I like to call… Area 61, and by any means possible—and especially by my wife.

Could it be the sign I posted on its outer doors, stating—DANGER DO NOT ENTER that draws her attention?

There have even been some expeditions, mounted by a few of our more adventurous and inquisitive children, all in the hopes of exploring this great void that is beyond my double doors of doom… never to have returned.

Of course, this has saved us (my wife included) countless millions of dollars in school lunches, yearbooks, fundraisers for rolls of wrapping paper, and of course, school pictures—twice a year no less!

And yet, my wife’s insistence on getting into Area 61 still borders on obsessiveness similar to that Ufologist and their determination to unlock the secrets of that mysterious compound in the middle of the Nevada desert. I have tried to remind her of what happened to the cat when it got curious, to which she exclaimed…

“Yeah… it got lost in your closet, and never returned!” Okay, yes its true, but that’s only because our cat didn’t read the sign that said—DANGER DO NO ENTER!

I don’t know what any of them were hoping to find in my Area 61? Maybe some great lost civilization? But, is it my fault that group forgot to leave breadcrumbs?

I mean, it wasn’t as if I didn’t warn the great Minoan civilization about what might happen if the got into my H.G Wells original time machine (don’t ask, I found it at a garage sale and decided to use it to visit the Minoans. But, upon arriving back at my closet and exiting my time machine (one by one…it practically took all day to complete the exodus!) began wondering about in my closet, and became a lost civilization.

But, maybe my wife and kids were hoping they could find my cigar box full of rare baseball cards. It contains my T206 Honus Wagner baseball card (one of only 3 in existence), worth around $2.8 million. I think I left it attached to the spokes of my lime colored, banana seat, stingray bike… I know its in there somewhere.

Then again, they might have been after Spielberg’s stage prop of the Ark of the Covenant from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Ever since I borrowed it from Steven—and then promptly lost it in there—he’s been after my family to get it back for him. Doesn’t he think if I knew where it was… I’d go in and get it myself?

But then, I guess he knows I’m not that stupid. I often wonder what might happen if some idiot—lost in there—ever found it, and then tried to open it? Think of the mess… eww!

Besides, a person could get sucked into the black hole that is now my closet and never get out. That’s what happened to Jimmy Hoffa, you know. He didn’t go missing—he just got lost in there is all!

Dorothy’s Ruby Slippers, George Washington’s Wooden Teeth, one of the Moon Rocks. Yeah… those Moon Rocks—but I have the one with that Martian finger-print on it—NASA still hasn’t reported that one as missing, I wonder why?

They’re all in there though… somewhere, along with all the brains of Congress. I was doing this telepathy trick for them—the one I saw used on TV’s The Mentalist used by the character, Patrick Jane. Boy did that go bad. As soon as I realized what had happened, I chucked it into Area 61. Guess now we’ll have to elect a new Congress.

Oh, and then there’s this sock that came out of the washer the other day. Yep, I left the other one on the floor in my closet, and now its part of Area 61 too! 

The Writers Cloak Of Invisibility

You love writing, you do it every chance you get. Bathroom stall graffiti… no problem. Scribbles on the blank wall of a public building? You bet, maybe even in color. Autographing someones yearbook… uh… without their knowing it? Sure!

Writing, it’s what you love, it’s what you do. Then along comes someone who says, “You’ll never be a writer.”

Naturally, you’re devastated. But, then who wouldn’t be, right?

Well you for one, because you realize just how stupid that individual was. And so to make sure this person doesn’t make that mistake again… you spray paint what a great writer you’re going to be, all over their forehead.

Still they’re not impressed. But writing consumes your life and a writer you will be.

You think back to how it all started. Your mom and dad bought you crayons to draw pictures and write the alphabet with. The bedroom wall became your stationary. You thought; “Why waste paper?” Soon you branched out to living rooms, kitchens, and ultimately… the bathrooms.

Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Dr. Seuss were your mentors. You tried to let them know this by writing in the margins of their books. Okay, so the librarians weren’t impressed, but that didn’t matter, because you’re a writer.

Soon you graduated to writing love letters—to every bill collector who ever requested money from you. The collection agency’s became enamored with your masterful use of profanity. You know this, because they kept sending you more statements of their affection.

You reasoned that they must have thought, “What a magnificent four letter vocabulary you have.”

Publishers couldn’t wait to get their hands on your manuscripts—they just didn’t know how. This might explain why none of your manuscripts ever get rejected.

Your skill at writing also extended to writing on other peoples hands; particularly girls you wanted to date. “For a good time, call me.” That’s when you discovered girls didn’t know how to use the phone. What other possible reason could there be for your phone not ringing?

Then you started a personal journal.

Although, your sister never fully appreciated you reading her diary, you were comfortable in the knowledge that she loved the funny remarks you left behind! Why else would she scream (literally) about it to mom and dad?

Finally, your writing was getting noticed.

How could you not be a good writer, especially when all your teacher’s used to say “I want you to write, on the board ‘I will not write (with permanent marker) on my fellow classmates new clothes’ 100 times each.”

Then came the internet. Google! The world was about to become your oyster.

This thought seemed pretty funny to you at the time (but to no one else) since it had absolutely nothing to do with your writing—but you couldn’t resist putting it into this post anyway.

The magical day was at hand. The one when you discovered, you could start a blog—and it was absolutely free! You were impressed… even if WordPress wasn’t.

Now you could spread all your pearls of wisdom (yeah right) before swine—although, why you would ever want to spread your writings before a bunch of non-reading pigs is still a question, not to mention other ne’er-do-wells—instead of reaching out to the more intelligent readers out there…

Like those who watch foreign movies for the subtitles.

Yes, you’ve finally become what you were always meant to be; a virtually invisible, disrespected, unpaid grammatical menace to readership around the world. And even more inexplicably; better writers, seemed to have fallen under your spell!

Which is why you now wear the cloak of invisibility.  You also get to wear it with pride—because you’re the only one who has one!

It Was A Tenebrous An Blustery Night, Or Was It…Purple Prose?

Snoopy, at his literary best, by Charles Schulz.

I have just finished the first chapter of my new novel, here is a brief excerpt:

At first, it was a shadowy and menacing gloom. But, then it became a overcast foul fog. It wasn’t long before it was a cloudy windy twilight. Still, it was a drab dreary dusk.

With it being a dim, yet murky late day, some would call it an opaque and wet early evening. However, it really was a black and threatening nightfall.

As it progressed it eased into a grimy, sooty and rainy inky-looking after dark. Nonetheless, you could tell it was an obscure and wild nightfall.

Soon it was an aphotic and gusty nighttime… definitely not a stygian and turbulent day—we’re definitely talking pitch-black here!

By nine o’clock it was a downright nebulous downpour of a bedtime. Yes, it was a crespuscular squal of a dead of night—and that wasn’t easy to say—believe me.

As it grew later you could tell it was a atramentous and raging midnight. After twelve AM (you’re still up?) it was an  undeniably caliginous and raging, howling, witching hour. I think it’s safe to say, it was a lurid and—really coming down—predawn.

In short—it was a dark and stormy night.

Hey, Snoopy had this idea first, I was just trying to improve on it. And besides, he never finished the novel anyway… probably because he was missing a fourth finger.

Maybe, Only Your Mortician Knows For Sure

“Does she or doesn’t she? Only her hairdresser knows for sure.” If you remember this very famous slogan by Clairol for their hair ads, you may be close to meeting your mortician.

I was recently reading where Marilyn Monroe’s mortician has just released a new tell all book, where he dishes the dirt, not only on Marilyn Monroe’s body, but other dead celebrities bodies, and the sorry state they were in after their demise.

Basically, he goes on record as saying, it’s not a pretty picture. And that got me thinking (oh, if only that’s all it took), that maybe, it’s their mortician who really knows for sure? And that’s when my brain had a morbidly profound thought.

Do I really want my mortician to see my body just after I’ve had the worst day of my life?

I can think of a few days that might have worked out better for me. For example; how about that day when I was told by my fitness coach, that I had the body of a twenty-four year old in training for the Olympic Decathlon. Although, he is something of a known liar… at least he got my age right.

Then there was the time I swam across the English Channel… IN MY MIND. The coroner might have been pleased with what would have awaited him on that cold slab of metal on that particular day. Lets face it, those of you who know me, wouldn’t blame him if he just said “Yuck, this guys mind was such a mess” had he got me on a day of one of my posts?

But back to being unprepared to meet your mortician on that day.

Remember your mother telling you to be sure to put clean underwear on before heading out, “Son, what if you have an accident?” I used to think, just one day I’d like to respond to my mom,saying “What if I die mom? I seriously doubt if the coroner would be concerned if I had an old pair of Fruit of the Looms on.”

I know I wouldn’t.

Right now, some of you are thinking “If I were dead right now, I would just die if the coroner saw me like this!” And a couple of you were wondering and don’t deny it, because its the naked truth, “Here I am heading to the mortuary—and I haven’t a thing to wear.” Yeah—we were wondering about that one too.

But, we don’t have time to dwell on your sex life, or where you were found when it happened. Well, not right this minute, but you can bet there will be plenty of speculation going on after we’re done here, I can tell you that.

Other questions of note; Did I dye my hair this morning; brush my teeth (god forbid if I forgot to floss again—wouldn’t you know it, and today of all days!); Darn, I didn’t weigh myself. Did I finally lose that nagging 46 pounds; what kind of damage did my poor body suffer at death; and… did I even have a body left?

Uh-huh… I think we can all agree, that in the end if we haven’t been thinking ahead and preparing for that day… only are mortician really knows for sure.

And if your anything like me; you’re probably hoping… that he isn’t planning on writing a best seller.

A Letter Addressed To Me At Age 100

Well hello there brand new centurion. So you finally made it to one hundred, did you? Personally (just between you and me) I can’t believe you made it past the age of ten. But, here you are.

The fact that you can read this with your own eyes (you are reading this with your own eyes, aren’t you?) is a good sign that some of your body parts are still working.

Remember, when you first started this project back in Kindergarten? You said that someday you were going to be rich and famous! Even then you were always going for the big belly laugh.

Oh sure as the years went by you may have flirted with the rich and famous, but fame always seemed to elude you—not to mention all the money and influence that goes with it.

That didn’t stop you though.

There was that time at age ten, when you tried to tell everyone you’d discovered Big Foot, living right next door. But, how were you to know that your next door neighbor would take offense to you calling him Big Foot… simply because he had size ten sneakers.

Live and learn though, right? At least the beatings only lasted through high school. Okay, so the broken bones were another matter.

But again, here you are at one-hundred; you always were a forward thinking kind of guy. And now its time to reap the benefits of a long life. That’s why you wrote to youself in advance, just in case you got Paulziemers and couldn’t remember your plan B—for getting rich and famous.

So, here are the plan B instructions just as you recorded them…

Keep track of, and record in writing, the names of all the famous figures, celebrities, and rich moguls of your time. Take special note of any peculiarities they might have, especially the more obscure traits that the public may not be familiar with, as these could produce financial rewards to me later in life.

Gather any fact, places they’ve been, where they’ve lived, and relatives still living (just in case), so that when the time comes to implement plan B, you can protect yourself, while still capitalizing on their past fame.

Then, as each one of these noted individuals passes away, you’ll have a detailed dossier to refer to in case your memory fails you.

Now, implement plan B—for you own fame and wealth!

Claim to anyone who will listen (especially the tabloids, gossip magazines, and shows like Inside Edition, and ET—they love that stuff) that you knew so and so way back when.

For instance (using the famous that are already gone as an example); try these on for size, “I was George Washington’s personal dentist” Who would know? And, “Abe Lincoln came to me for clever quips” You certainly would have been the go to guy with future presidential hopefuls. 

How about this one, “I taught Albert Einstein everything he knows” as he is now gone, academic scholars would have paid to pick your brain. And my favorite, “Cleopatra and I… were secret lovers.” Why the rags of their day would be at your feet… maybe even make you Emperor of Rome!

Armed to the teeth with this kind of hidden knowledge, and with you now being linked to the past by your extreme old age, this information, if used discretely long after the rich and famous are gone, could make you a celebrity.

And those left alive (who are the same age) and who would threaten to call you a liar, would probably have dementia, or would just be happy that someone from their day remembers anything at all!

You’ll become world famous. Women will love you… asking you things like, “You and George Clooney hung out together… what was he like?” And the men will ask, “And what was that BIG SECRET—you gave to Steve Jobs?”

Just think, you old geezer; now that your one hundred, you’ll be able to regale people with your fabricated stories… uncontested—so go forth (in your wheelchair), and make your fortune!

I Can Cliche Until The Cows Come Home

They say an idle mind is the devil’s playground, and I was at my wit’s end. I knew I was a day late and a dollar short (make that a post or two short). I had no post, my back was against the wall, to coin a phrase (a phrase already coined). But relax, all in due time.

On second thought, I’d just take it one day at a time and suddenly, a third day—on the seventh I rested (too biblical?). But relax, all in due time.

Here it was the start of the week, and I was Monday morning quarterbacking. My stomach was in knots, my hands were tied, and ideas for a post were dropping like flies. But relax, all in due time.

Still, I kept thinking, don’t sweat it, the end will justify the means, every dark cloud has a silver lining. Yet it lingered in the back of my mind; don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today. But relax, all in due time.

I had tried writing about everything, everything but the kitchen sink, “anything goes” I said to myself. No point in beating a dead horse (not that I had one). But relax, all in due time (what a scary thought!).

However, I was up a creek without a paddle. Desperate means require desperate measures. But relax, all in due time.

Now if I’ve said it once I’ve said it a thousand times; If wishes were horses, beggars would ride (yes, it makes no sense, but it filled a line). But relax, all in due time.

Yes, I was fit to be hung, but fit as a fiddle. I said to myself, “I can do this, and The Home Depot can help.” (oh wait, that’s a slogan!). But relax, all in due time.

But there was no reason to run around like a chicken with its head cut off. For as luck would have it, and it fit like a glove especially with cliches all written above; I would write in cliche! Is it due time?

They were on the tip of my tongue. I was no longer out to lunch, I had the pick of the litter. It was like child’s play. I no longer had my tail between my legs, I was taking the bull by the horns, this post was no longer a thorn in my side. With tongue in cheek, I was no longer tongue tied.

I guess you could say; All’s well that ends well, and it’s high time!

The Other Count

Although Count Dracula was more infamous, Count Poiendexter still had his own children of the night. Not nearly as frightening, but their “Meow’s” still allowed him to say, “Children of the night, what sad music you make.”

Much Ado About Nothing

It’s only Friday… and that’s nothing to get excited about. Nothing to get excited about? Well nothing may excite you about nothing, but nothing excites me more—than NOTHING! So I’ll just write about nothing, especially nothing in particular.

Lets face it, there’s nothing like it. Then again, that’s the beauty of saying nothing, it’s a vast subject, as you can well imagine, and you’ll have to.

You see, there’s nothing to see here folks, well nothing to shake a stick at anyway. So say nothing and let me do the talking. See, if I say nothing first, then there is nothing left for you to say, get it?

Besides, I’m an expert on nothing which means, there is nothing new under the sun you can tell me about nothing that I don’t already know, except that its nothing to sneeze at—I wonder why that is, don’t you? And you said we had nothing in common.

You do know there’s nothing we can do about that though, don’t you? But that’s nothing to be ashamed of, nothing at all.

With me, nothing is impossible, believe me I know. I could tell you stories, but nothing to write home about. Still, you’ll get nothing out of this post, and nothing is guaranteed, but I’ll tell you the truth and nothing but the truth. And I’ll leave nothing to your imagination.

Oh sure, you’re probably thinking, “He’s lying.” But, nothing could be further from the truth, and nothing could be more beautiful… and you call that nothing?

Now we could talk about zeros but then—that really IS nothing!

That would leave you with nothing to say, except, “I got nothing out of your post today” but remember, nothing worth having comes easy, and I have nothing to prove.

Okay, so you wanna scream, “I’ll sue!” for these three minutes you can’t get back, but I have nothing to lose. So, why do all that for nothing, after all, half of nothing is nothing, and you probably have next to nothing already.

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained I always say, but in your case I suppose it’s all or nothing at all, right?

I guess that leaves us with nothing left to talk about. And I’m willing to bet that nothing I say right now, could please you more.

Well that was a whole lot about nothing.

A Letter From Da French In La France

Ah Paris! City of soft beautiful light home to Sacre-Coeur Basilica, Champs-Elysees, Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, and da Eiffel Tower.

Did you try reading all dat in a ridiculous French accent?

Den go back and uh do it. Oh you did already? Well mademoiselle an monsieur, how’s your tongue dewing now, eh?

Yes the city of lovers, but wait… why not uh, Rome, London, Rio, or da—Skokie, Illinois, eh?

Den I shall tell you silly American types why, because uh you do not have da Pont des Arts bridge of… LUUUV! But wait… neider do we anymore.

Sacrebleu!

Oui, we… it is true… we no longer have a lock on that title eider. For shame and fromage… to go with my wine of course (sip).

Uh since you are reading in da English, you may not realize that you have read a French profanity. No, no… don’t worry, I will not breed a word of it to the Pope-pa… ’cause he is uh… in Rome.

I bet you could not write dat in da French eh? Oui, oui, ’cause neider can I.

But uh, back to da Pont des Arts bridge… no?

We French, you see, we are da ro-mantic type. We love all things romantic. Like uh, the French kitty and dat skunk, what’s his name?

Oh yes, Pepe, da skunk Le Pew.

Ah sew (I almost pulled off being Japanese there), when uh you come to see us in la France, we like uh to play da song. You know da song… La Vie En Rose. Dis we do while wearing a beret and holding da botto weeth a glass of sham-pag-a-knee.

And uh sometimes we even do it…  NAY-KID! Oui… it is uh more sexy dat way, eh?

And so as you uh foreigners stand on da Pont des Arts bridge, you feel da luuuv of uh Gay Paree… no? And dis… luuuv it uh, fills your heart, dat is right oui? So, you pull out the padlock as opposed to uh ring… no? Dis is da language of da luuuv in some otter country… is it not?

Far be it uh from me to quest-ion your tra-dicions. But as for us we like da ring bit… but C’est la vie… no?

Dis uh undying luuuv it uh now compels you to boat write (in permanent marker of course) on da padlock your devotion to one anoder. You den attach da padlock onto da fence on da Pont des Arts bridge, and throw da key into da river below. Ah, how ro-mantic… how French of you… no?

Uh no.

You see we French, through no fault of our own, are becoming less ro-mantic ah. Seems our elected officials feel your luuuv is uh crumbling… OUR BRIDGE!

And so, off wit your padlocks before our belov-ed bridge falls into your sea of luuuv, or as we like to call it… the Seine.

Mind you, it is not dat we don’t luuuv you English monet (translation—money), we do. But uh, we like our bridge just a wee bit more.

So Bon Voyage safe journey home, eh!