It Was All A Big Mistake!

Whoops! Apparently a former employee of ours from, “In My Cluttered Attic” (going by the name of Bob), went and hijacked my blog yesterday (without my notice), and then proceeded to go about telling the world that it was going to end.

He even tried to create AN EVEN GREATER STIR, by telling the worlds populace that my blog “In My Cluttered Attic” was also coming to an end!

Well, you’ll all be happy to know that this bounder and cad has been apprehended by this sites secret police. He is being held in a secluded maximum security prison where some inhuman experiments are now being conducted on him. He’ll trouble you no more.

Normally I would not divulge the nature of these inhuman experiments, but in this case—and as a warning to others who would dare to overthrow and use this site for anything else, but humor and gaiety—I am going to let you all in on the cruel treatment he is currently undergoing.

First of all, upon his incarceration, former SS officers (who had been hiding out in Brazil) were brought in (don’t worry, we here at ‘The Attic’ paid them the proper American minimum wage) to do a thorough interrogation. At first, they were not as excited about the work as we had hoped.

Naturally, we showed little patience with our interrogators (its the American way) as many of them are not only long out of practice, but also hobbled and crippled by age. But, our use of the finest whips money can buy eventually compelled them to do our bidding. We find this works quite well, except for when a certain number of these slackers die on us.

That’s when we really had to crack down on them. Thus, the need for a new time clock where they have to punch in before they can conduct their inhuman experiments. Now they can’t wait to get to work. However, they still hate that time clock..

But back to our prisoner.

The torture for his crimes have been hideous, but no more than he deserves. First they took away his half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich… and under no circumstances was he permitted to have a glass of milk. NO MILK FOR HIM! He’s also forbidden to watch ‘Dancng with the Stars’ (we discovered that he secretly worships Tom Bergeron). 

And lastly, he was asked to take down his posters of Caitlyn Jenner from his cell walls, and replace them with Bruce Jenner’s posters.

Now, some of you may find this kind of treatment harsh and uncivilized. We here at ‘The Attic’ get that. But, we also feel the punishment should fit the crime. After all, we were no less harsh with former Vice President (god I love saying that), Dick Cheney, when we took away his rifle after his famous misfire.

Or when we took away President Obama’s birth certificate for naming his dog Bo. Of course at the time we had no idea that the Donald would have a field day with that one. But, our reluctance to let anyone off the hook knows no bounds.

Especially when it comes to former employee, Bob.

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Well This Is It—Time To Say Goodbye

It’s been fun. But you know, it’s always sad when we have to say goodbye… except when it’s goodbye to pollution, terrorist, and bad writers. I wonder why that is?

Anyway, I wanted to say what a pleasure it has been doing this blog for all of you. I always tried to give you a good belly laugh. Remember that one, and what a belly laugh it was? At least a few of you got it. As for the rest of you, sorry about the dysentery.

But, here I am, writing to all of you one last time to let you know that the world is coming to an end tonight and that this will probably be my last post and testament.

The religious communities have been talking about it for months. I did my best to ignore it in hopes that the rumors of our demise were untrue. But, sadly, my wife went out and emptied our bank account, so the world must be ending.

She did it so that we could eat out in style one last time at McDonalds. Thanks to the value meals we’ll be going out with change to spare.

Ominously, all of this coincides with the arrival of a ‘Blood Moon’ signaling the end of the world as we know it. And let me tell you, this time the end of the world is going to be much worse than the last time the world ended.

Remember the end of the world the last time? What a huge disappointment that one was?

But, I think this end of the world is really going to make up for the last one. This time the end of the world comes during a lunar eclipse of a ‘Blood Moon’ and that simultaneously corresponds with a supermoon!

(It was here that the sound of crickets then filled the air. Chirp chirp… chirp chirp).

And no, I wasn’t at the gathering where when dreamed this one up—but it must be true. Do you know that some of the faithful are actually running out to grab all the food they can get just so they can survive the long haul?

Maybe they’re the other faithful… the ones that think god might not be on their side?

And since NASA say’s that this unusual eclipse is going to be visible to North America, Europe, and Africa I’m pretty sure most of us are gonna be pushing up daisies by Monday morning. With so many bogus prophets saying this is gospel, how can they go wrong?

I wonder how all of this managed to escape the Pope’s notice? 

Anyway, months of fruitful work of setting up, planning, and securing a theme for my blog have all been wasted.

Not to mention finding my voice and then purchasing a distinct comedy style of writing from another internet site that deals in that sort of thing.

And all for a modest fee—their words not mine.

The site guaranteed that their list of 500 comedy styling’s was completely original. I haven’t quite been able to to confirm that one yet, as they haven’t returned any of my emails or phone calls.

And to think I endured all those WordPress changes. And all for what? Just so we can meet our maker?

They say he’s this hotshot big wig guy out of Detroit, or if you will as someone else once said, a big pink pixie in the sky.

But either way, I don’t care if he is dressed in pink, and flying first class. and carrying a wand of destruction.

Because, as far as I’m concerned, this only proves what I’ve been saying all along; that the TSA is not doing their job! I mean, letting a guy like that get on a commercial flight to nowhere. What were they thinking?

So, I thought I should say goodbye to you all now, before the NFL Sunday Ticket starts. God knows I won’t have time later.

I’ll be too busy collecting my winnings, because I paid some guy to tell me what teams are going to win in every game this week.

I even got this etched in stone, stone cold lock of the week—for free!

So, buh bye… for now.

All About What’s Going On Up There!

You know, every once in awhile I’ll get a comment or two from people. Oh yeah… but that’s the price you pay for only having ‘the happiest most IMPOSSIBLE to find blog on the entire internet.’ And, one or two folks have even gone so far as to tell me that they love my poetry—which I find strangely odd—since I don’t write poetry.

However, I do confess that at one time, I did consider having the EASIEST to find blog on the entire internet. But, then it occurred to me that Vito and Vinnie might find me. So, I’ve since reconsidered that idea, and I’m going to continue lying low for a while longer. Sorry boy’s, thank Mario for the nice offer, but I don’t think I’d like sleeping with the fishy’s.

Anyway, recently a woman named, Helen—from New Jersey—after having read my blog, asked me this question, “What goes on in that mind of yours, is there any possibility of you donating your brain to science—perhaps while your still alive?”

Touched as I was by her desire to learn the INGENUOUS way in which my mind works, I felt that I had to remind her that a GENIUS has so much more to offer the world without donating my mind to science while I’m still alive. There will be plenty of time to do that… long after I’m dead.

Helen, who is from some place called, Princeton replied; “Don’t kid yourself BROTHER.”

Helen, dear lady, I don’t think I have a sister in New Jersey, but I do think there is an easy way to find out if we’re related.

We need only to have your blood drawn to test and see if you are from the AMA. It’s a great way to find out if you’ve ever belonged to the American Medical Association. It’s better than messing with the DNA, and then we’ll know if we’re a match.

But personally, I’m pretty sure I’ve never worked for the AMA. So, I seriously doubt if we can relate to each other.

Still, some folks have pressed me for more details about what goes on up inside my head—and let me just say; those waterboard sessions were the worst! Yes, I’ve even told readers that they could read what’s “In My Cluttered Attic” to find out what’s going on up there, but I guess they wanted a second by second account.

And so, for the very first time in—In My Cluttered Attic’s—history, I am going to give you—my reader’s— a chance to experience the wonder that is… my brain. Hold on tight now…this could get a little intense, but please, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Alright, here we go…

………..Okay…….I’m getting an image now……..Yes……….I’m seeing a cheese steak sandwich……..but I can’t eat it yet…………..DARN!…………. because it’s only in my mind………………………but boy does that sound good right now!……………….. SEX!……………..But, I better wait for lunch……………….. SEX!…………………But, I’m hungry now!………………….SEX!………………Wait a minute!………………I gotta tinkle…………………….I’ll be right back………………………………………oh my wife is going to kill me………….because I left the toilet seat up again!……………. …………………..SEX!…………..Oh wait!……..I have another thought coming in……………………………………………..never mind……………..it’s gone…………………..oh……. Oh………OH wait………..SEX!………..Woohoo!…………………lost it there for a moment………sorry…………..is it lunch yet?……………..Oh for crying out loud………………SEX!……………….Now focus stupid………….stop and concentrate…………………..on SEX!………………….oh, for the love of………SEX!……………stop and think about…………………….SEX!………………Gee whiz……………..I mean, I know that being a man means we think about………SEX!………… a lot…………….but every seven seconds?……….Come on!……….. SEX………………..no wonder it takes me so long to do a post!………SEX!………Oh this is terrible this is!……SEX!!! 

Friends, Would You Like Your Bank Account Cleaned Out By Me?

Well I can. Hey friends, Paul here. Let me ask you something, how clean is your money? Does George Washington’s wig look like it’s in need of a dry cleaning; is the outside of the Capitol Rotunda in need of a scrub; or the White House like, covered with graffiti and autographs by people you don’t even know?

And what about all that change you carry around? Does Woodrow Wilson look like he was lying face down in a pile of dirt dating back to the Neolithic time period; and what about Abe Lincoln’s appearance, does he look like he hasn’t bothered to bathe in more than four score and seven years ago?

Yes my friends, I think it’s safe to say that you have dirty, filthy, money, and I’m here to take it off your hands. Just think of all the germs! But, with my new money laundering service, you’ll never again have to worry about ever having your bank account cleaned out, because I can do it for you.

No, no it’ll be my pleasure.

Recently I acquired a little laundromat. However, it wasn’t pulling in the kind cash I thought it would. Instead, people were bringing in their grungy, stinky, dirty clothes, and then washing them in my new machines. I didn’t mind it at first, but I felt I was only getting chump change in return on my investment.

Enter Pedro and Emiliano my new found friends and investors. One night they came in (from Columbia), and asked me if I’d be interested in operating a real money laundering service? I told them that I thought I was! They laughed, and then helped me replace bags of dirty clothes with sacks of cash.

And all tax free!

Well, I’m all for making a pretty penny, aren’t you? So, I said yes to their proposition and today my dryers are rolling in dough, and yours can be in there too. Granted, when their representatives first started bringing in cash for distribution to other countries, I assumed they wanted me to have it laundered first.

Whoa, big mistake! Santiago (that’s Pedro’s number two guy), he explained to me—you know, he carry’s a machete, showed me how sharp it was too by cutting Emiliano for not telling me he didn’t want the money washed—that they only wanted their money laundered through other countries, not my machines.

He did say, however, that if I wanted to wash my own cash in the machines—and that of my blogger friends—that that was fine with him and my fellow investors. They just want to use my laundromat as a front he said, for laundering their own cash through other countries.

Naturally I said that was fine, especially since they compensate me very well. You know, since I bought into their idea of letting them invest in my laundromat I have a new house, several new cars, a yacht in Monaco (you see that real big one in the photo, yep, its mine), and a flush bank account too—with plenty of clean money I might add. But best of all…

No more dirty clothes in my new washer and dryers.

So friends, let Pedro, Santiago (Emiliano’s untimely demise left room for a new partner), and myself, help clean your bank accounts out too. I promise they’ll be as clean as a whistle!

Incidentally, I’m not entirely sure about this, but I think Emiliano losing his head the way he did, might possibly have coined that phrase—clean as a whistle. But if any of you would like to look it up and get back to me, just to let me know for sure, I’d appreciate it.

You see, I’m a little busy pulling my cash out of the dryer right now, and I still have to wrap and stack it. Because, with Emiliano’s sudden departure, he left me with a big bloody mess, and now I have to rewash all that blood money.

How To Have A Successful Unpaid Career In Writing

When I was just a young embryo first starting out in life I knew exactly who, and what I wanted to be… Bill Gates. But, since that embryo had already been taken, I settled on becoming an embryo with a burning desire to write instead.

I knew right from the start, being a writer was for everyone! I mean, look at how many unpaid writer’s there are out there—and that’s just on WordPress alone! Many of them writing by day, some by night, others by candlelight—paying utility bills is a luxury bloggers can’t afford.

But, when you decide on a career as an unpaid writer, like I did… you expect to starve.

Yet I knew, if I stood out from all the other writers already out there… that would eventually mean I would have to start making me some money. So, when my career as a counterfeiter eventually ended… I went to prison. There, another writer and I decided to split the rent and share a cell together.

We wrote on the walls a lot in those days.

I guess none of it was worth publishing though, as no one ever came knocking on our cell with a cash advance. In time, we went our separate ways, he through a drain pipe, and I over the wall. But, those years we spent together writing graffiti… prepared me for the rejection slips to come.

I honed my skill at rejection by sending many of my writings to one place after another. Sometimes they were threats to the police, blackmail notes to the very very wealthy, and dirty lust filled letters to Zooey Deschanel. Each one came back stamped with the same familiar refrain… “REJECTED!” 

Undaunted, I continued to send the same lust filled letters I had once sent to Zooey, but this time to the police. Finally, instead of receiving rejection slips, I was received slips stamped…”AMUSING.” The size large women’s slips were often autographed. I knew Olga (my old prison guard) wouldn’t forget me.

Now, having been sexually aroused, I began writing for Playboy Magazine. They never bought anything from me, but I never stopped writing to them, in hopes of becoming an unpaid published staff writer. In fact, I nearly gave up the whole idea of writing for a possible career in photography, thanks to (LOOKING at), uh… I mean… reading Playboy.

But, photographing men wasn’t my cup of tea. I mean… Playboy?

I was then asked to consider taking up journalism, but my heart was still set on being a writer. I finally settled on the style of writer I wanted to be, that of a humorist. I even wrote former humor columnist, Dave Berry, and told him that if he could be considered a humorist, then anybody could.

Dave Berry-Writer and Humorist

He replied to my letter saying that his attorneys would be in contact with me concerning slander. I was genuinely touched by his kind gesture. And, I’m sure at some point they would have gotten around to mentioning some six or seven figure number to me. But, I didn’t want to work for some rag writing untruths.

So, here I am, the successfully gifted unpaid semi-professional writer you see before you today, blogging on WordPress for nothing. Yep, I’m living the dream. I can hear you all now, “But Paul, your readers don’t pay for it.”

And there you’d be wrong my friends.

Oh they’re paying for it—every time they happen to read anything I post on this blog.

Sorry Earth, I Admit It, I Taunted Extraterrestrials

About a dozen years ago I may have made a little mistake. I sent a letter out into space calling out extraterrestrial beings for their hostile nature. Ha, ha, ha… but it was a joke! Nevertheless, as luck would have it, I don’t think they saw it that way. I just received a letter of response in the mail. I think… we’re in trouble.

It was marked “Contents Urgent, Open Immediately Upon Receipt”

Naturally I wasn’t expecting any kind of response as I wrote this letter over a decade ago. I never expected any return mail, say nothing of it reaching some great INTELLIGENCE—I wonder if it’s too late to kiss up to an extraterrestrial?

Anyway, I did as instructed and opened the letter.

“Dear vile human-beings:” it began “how delightful to hear from you. We are in receipt of your letter dated September 14, 2003. We cannot help but wonder what on earth you were thinking, when you know darn well WE’RE GOING TO DESTROY YOU ALL FOR THIS!”

Okay, so I may have said a few things that were a little out of line. Things we’ll all probably regret later. But nothing any of you wouldn’t have thought of saying yourself to those little green bastards from outer space if they were standing here.

Which apparently they will be doing any minute now! (gulp)

Ha, ha, ha nothing like company coming when you least expect it, right? (Ahem… Gulp)

Naturally, I am as upset about this recent turn of events as you probably all are. But, I thought you should know (even at the eleventh hour) that they’re kind of upset about some of the things I…okay… WE… said to them. (Bigger GULP)

For example; I may have gone a little overboard when I swore (with a lot of profanity… and some finger-pointing) that someday I’d… okay WE… would kick their alien butt for abducting some of our people. And um… that WE would not take any of their sorry asses as prisoner. Okay, so BIG WHOOPS on my part there.

But hey, who thought they’d ever get the letter, right? Ha, ha ha!

And I may have accused them of doing this strictly so that they could have a little too much fun performing inhuman experiments on us—all without using some of our more popular pain killing recreational drugs. Yeah alright, I’ll admit that wasn’t cool either.

But dudes… E.T. has access to all the best stuff!

I also happened to mention how we didn’t appreciate their UFO’s buzzing around some of our aircraft over the years—just so they could show off how superior their technology is to our own.

Oh, and uh, how that was something only morons would do when they feel REAL inferior. I suggested they were compensating for not having a big… uh… well… you know.

They concluded their letter of response saying, “We thought you’d like to know (apparently as a courtesy, though some might call it a warning… or a threat) that by the time you receive this letter we’ll be well on our way, and very nearly there. Can’t wait to meet you, and all your friends…IN PERSON!”

“Yours truly: the little green bastards from outer space.”

“P.S. We haven’t forgot about what you guys did to us at Roswell.”

Uh… I think it’s just possible we’re all toast.

Well, It Happened Just Like This Your Honor…

Before the bench

I was driving down the freeway, and yes…I’m fully qualified to operate a motorized vehicle. I obtained my Disneyland Autopia License at the age of eight, and I have never had an accident in my life. 

Anyway, I suddenly realized that there were white squiggly marks on the passenger windows in the back seat of my car.

Whats that? How fast was I going while looking at the back windows? Oh, no more than 85… tops!

So, I immediately pulled over and off to the side of the freeway and got out to have a look. There appeared to be quite a few squiggly lines on both my windows, but none on the rear window.

It wasn’t long before this nice highway patrol officer here, pulled up behind me and got out to see what the problem was. He came over and asked, “Flat tire?”

I replied to him calmly, “No.” So then he says to me…

“Oh, engine trouble, huh?” I just had to shake my head in disbelief your honor. I mean, we haven’t had any Indian problems for years—with the possible exception of the Washington Redskins of late. Well, not since the days of the Stanford Indians respectfully changing their name to the Stanford Cardinal. 

So I asked your officer, politely of course, “Are you out of your mind? I have no reservations about Indians? That’s NFL owner, Daniel Snyder’s problem!”

I was met with a quizzical look from your officer. I mean, talk about being out of touch. You folks are obviously overworking your people. Your officer apparently has had very little time to read the papers, or watch the news while consuming his daily supply of donuts and coffee.

Anyway, he then asked me, “Well then, whats the emergency?”

Taking into consideration that the poor man has been terribly overworked, I pointed to my rear side windows and said, “Look at that.” he turned to look at my side windows. Then, with this blank expression on his face, he looked back at me and replied…”So?”

So I took time to explain to him, very slowly I might add, so that he would understand every word I said…

“Look, I just cleaned the entire car two days ago. Inside and out. I vacuumed, I scrubbed, and I wiped down both sides of the windows… I even Simonized my car.  And now this” 

I then pointed at my windows again.

Still, your officer seemed out of touch and with a face that could only come from someone having had a full frontal lobotomy he responded to me with, “I don’t see the problem.”

I then took out my cell phone—he then pulled out his gun— and I then called my wife. The officer sarcastically asked, “Calling your attorney?” I told him “No, my wife.” With a smile he nodded his head up and down and jokingly said, “Is she an attorney?” Again I said, “No.” Then he looked down and said…

“Oh… that’s too bad.”

When my wife answered the phone I began to describe to her how the back seat windows looked like they had squiggly lines all across them, even though I had just cleaned the car two days ago.

Naturally, I asked her how that could be?

She laughed and told us, your officer and I, how yesterday she had put our youngest daughter’s dog—his name is Simon—in the back seat of our car so that she could take him to the dog run. She concluded by suggesting that Simon must have ran his nose along the windows while he was looking outside.

I then smiled at your officer, sheepishly of course, and joked “I guess you could say our daughter’s dog…  Simonosed my car.”

He didn’t seem to be too amused and that’s why I’m standing here before you now, judge. Hey, I don’t suppose you guys could loosen the handcuffs a little bit? You know, they feel awfully tight. 

Trying To Get A Rise Out Of People

The year was 1814 and Dr. Victor Von Frankenstein was busy pilfering bodies in order to build his modest practice—that of raising the dead. Everyday, starting at nine A.M. the deceased would start arriving at his office.

Victor wanted to raise his new creations right, but he was going to need a lot of help—A LOT OF HELP!

At first, his office temps—working for minimum wage—had no problem handling the work load. But, it wasn’t long before the temps were overwhelmed by the shear number of walking dead coming through the office doors…windows… and roof. So much so in fact… that the day, and swing shift temps became working zombies themselves. 

This unforeseen nightmare forced the GOOD doctor (it would be a long time before he became better than a good doctor, and would attain the rank of… specialist) to advertise on Craigslist, for someone to assist him on the graveyard shifts.

You see, word had spread so fast among those in the cadaver community, that they were starting to come out of the cemetery in staggering numbers, so much so in fact, that the doctor couldn’t make time for his nightly ritual of grave robbing. Thus, the need for a new hire to take over soliciting the graveyard on his behalf.

Enter, Eyegore, that’s Eyegore with an E.

A young man, who had read a series of books about a character named, Victor Hugo. He became so obsessed with the writer of the books—one Quasimodo by name—that he got a bad eyestrain from reading up on him in all the tabloids.

That, and a bad back from sitting hunched over his keyboard every night until sunrise, researching for more facts on Wikipedia about his favorite writer.

He learned how his hero, Quasimodo, had played football at university. But, as Quasimodo had not eaten enough to play fullback for the Notre Dame team, it became necessary for Quasi to play hunchback, under then coach, Knute Rockne. The coach weighed more than Quasimodo expected, and this forced Quasimodo into a BAD BACK, and BACKFIELD.

But, Quasimodo carried Rockne to one victory after another, until one day…

Quasimodo broke down at the five and ten paper stand, due to bad press… and some wobbly knees. And so, he gave up playing football and concentrated on becoming a writer. However, Rockne never got over it, and that’s when he went out to the players and gave that famous speech about, “Go out and win one for the Gimper.”

Some historians swear he said limper, but the word ‘Gimper’ made for better yellow journalism. Well, that’s enough back story on, Eyegore.

Back to the medical profession and doctors who had more legitimate practices than Victor Frankenstein (for example: the kind that paid money) like plastic surgeons, chiropractors, dentist, and electrocardiologist. One day, one of the heads from the FDA (the Food and Drug Administration) came walking in—which Victor thought was a pretty neat trick (particularly since this guy had no body!), and asked…

“What’s all this rigmarole we hear about you raising the dead?”

Victor, looked down at his extremely lazy, but always hungry dog (named Frankenweenie), who hadn’t moved in weeks, and thought for a moment, before saying… 

“Well, I think its possible.” then he continued…

“For example; look at this dead dog—a slight exaggeration, but not by much—to look at him you’d think it impossible you’d ever be able to get a rise out of him. But, with the snap of my fingers… and this here dog biscuit, I can bring him back from the dead. I think it has something to do with Pavlov’s dogs”

Some guy named, Petrovich Pavlov, was Victors neighbor. He ran a kennel.

Anyway, just like that, Frankenweenie rose from the dead and pranced all around Victor. He’d follow Victor from one corner of the room to the other around, never once taking his eye off of the dog biscuit.

The head from the FDA  smiled in amazement, “That’s very impressive!” he said. Then he asked “But, will it work on humans?”

Victor thought for a moment and replied, “I doubt it, people are much more complicated—they hate dog biscuits.”

God, Or No God—How To Tell If Someone Is A God Or Not

Have you ever noticed how in ancient times practically everyone was going around proclaiming themselves to be some sort of god. It all started with this kid named, Hermes, who eventually started calling himself a god.

No doubt this was partly due to his being teased a lot about his shoes—they had wings on them.

Now it’s a well known fact that this kid, Hermes (his name alone probably made him a prime candidate for being teased a lot) was also a bit of a mischief maker.

One day (and that’s all it took) he challenged this other kid named Icarus, from his Mythology class (whose dad had made him some fancy wings out of wax as a Halloween costume) to see if he could actually fly while wearing those wings.

This is all well documented. And if you doubt me, I can tell you that I read all about it in a book that once sat on the shelves in the great Library of Alexandria, which was destroyed by the Great Chicago Fire that subsequently spread throughout all of Egypt. How I came in possession of that copy is privileged information—I stole it.

It was in all the papers, but that’s a story for another time. Not the theft (there was a fine of .25 cents) the fire.

Anyway, it was lunchtime and pretty hot out when Icarus took flight. Well after a few minutes it appeared to everyone on the ground that Icarus was in trouble. An eyewitness, one Shirley Babcock—from Mrs. Michael’s seventh grade class—said she could hear Icarus screaming, “I’m falling, I’m falling and I can’t get up!”

Long story short…Icarus didn’t make it out of the ER.

Eventually, other kids—who were friends of Icarus—decided to take matters into their own hands and started threatening to beat up Hermes after school.

Now Hermes, knowing these kids to be real knuckleheads and actually quite naive for their day, started telling them that he was a god, and that his dad was Zeus.

By the way, this Zeus guy, well he was a pretty important dude; knew all the town council, even quite a few of the merchants as well—many of whom were parents of some of those knuckleheads.

Once Hermes discovered that telling people he was a god would really make them stop and think twice, he decided to stay with it. Thus, they stopped giving him so much trouble.

It wasn’t until he started applying for Social Security (I guess Social Security tends to think more than twice), that Hermes realized the government wasn’t as gullible as most folks.

But, this didn’t stop people from trying to tell others, that they too were gods.

So, it wasn’t long before a system had to be devised by which people could tell whether someone was a god, or not. At first, it was quite primitive. If someone said they were a god, the skeptic would usually throw a spear at them.

If they bleed to death… they weren’t a god.

But, as time went by people became more sophisticated and they determined whether you were a god or not, by simply asking you a question.

They’d ask, “If your a god, tell me… do you go to the bathroom?” Now, if they answered yes the skeptic would immediately picture them sitting naked on a toilet seat, going number one or number two. This being a ridiculously position for one who had just claimed to be a god to be pictured in, usually meant some dire consequence was coming.

Only then would the skeptic throw a spear at the would be god. Sometimes… while the god was still sitting there doing their duty! This resulted in many a crime scene cleaner discovering the cleaning power of Bon Ami—and also that that person wasn’t a god.

Now, if it happened to be a woman declaring herself a goddess, and that question was put to her and she answered yes… well they might have made her Miss Universe. But, they didn’t, they just stoned her instead.

In the extreme cases, where the individual refused to let go of the silly notion that they were a god, they would often find themselves being followed around. Usually on a forced march into the desert, where the skeptics would watch to see if the would be god could survive without food or water.

After a few days, the skeptical observers were ponder the great mystery of your death—this they did while watching the buzzards picking your bones clean. The skeptics could often be heard muttering over the would be gods remains… “God… I was really hoping he’d be a god. Oh well.” Then they’d set off to find another god—or get more spear practice.

Spontaneous Human Combustion And Other Mysterious Dark Arts

Burning Man Black Rock, Nevada

Let’s say you’re a semi-professional—don’t try this at home—humor blog writer. Your talent for milking belly laughs out of your readers is without question—despicable. And although its been a week since you last wrote a post, your readers understand—great material takes time.

In any case, they’ve always figured it would be light years before great material like that ever came from the likes of someone like you. Mind you, none of this has anything to do with me.

But let’s just say for the sake of argument, you were that hack, and imagine you had caught wind of a gathering of people (better than 60,000), and you knew that they were quickly descending on a place out in the middle of nowhere. You’d want to write a post about that, wouldn’t you? I mean, that would be big news, right? 

Okay, you want more incredible? Well, how about they’re coming to see an event of Spontaneous Human Combustion, with the expectation of spending an entire week in a city… THAT DOESN’T EVEN EXIST!

How’s your curiosity now, huh?

Naturally, being a writer with higher standards, I dismissed the whole ridiculous fantasy as something you might hear coming out of the mouth of Kanye West at a MTV Video Music Awards show. Though I must confess, Kanye West sounds almost as convincing as Donald Trump.

But the more I thought about it, I mean… the more the hack thought about it, the more intriguing the whole idea became to me, uh… him.

I, or rather…he, began to wonder, after all I’m nobody’s fool (except maybe my wife’s), could there truly be a hoard of torch carrying pyromaniacs—not seen since those make believe townsfolk chased Frankenstein’s monster off the old Universal Studio back lot—racing into the desert around the Black Rock area?

And could they really be bearing down on the playa north of Reno, Nevada with the intent to commit strange, odd, and curious looking art, not of this world? Well you have to admit, it kind of looks otherworldly.

And what if the ghostly Black Rock City, actually did materialize only to be wiped clean one week later by a desert sand storm, and vanish without a trace for a year—as legend says? Makes you wonder if the town council of this Brigadoon like city, isn’t involved in some sort of cover-up, doesn’t it?

And lastly, what about that chance to witness a real case of Spontaneous Human Combustion? Oh… that would be exciting! Uh… not for me of course, but for that hack. Yeah, the hack…he thought it would be exciting. 

But, it was all not to be.

Yes my, I mean… the hack’s research, confirmed all of my, I mean his worst fears. Thus, should I,  or he, go to this years “Burning Man” event I, I mean… he, would not get to witness a real human torch spontaneously going up in flames all on his own. Gee what a gyp!

I mean, the hack thought it would be a gyp.

But parish the thought, including the poor devil who might have volunteered to do the crazy stunt in the first place. Yep, no real “Burning Man.” Instead, they (the pyro’s) intend to construct and burn a human made completely out of wood.

Fortunately, Pinocchio declined the chance to be their Master of Ceremonies for this year, or any other year for that matter.

Imagine the ramifications if he hadn’t. You can’t tell me there wasn’t someone pulling a lot strings behind the scenes trying to keep that from happening.

There’s not even a hint of the movie “The Wicker Man”  either. Neither version, although I’m sure that will come as a relief to actor Nicolas Cage, should he decide to attend.

And that’s not all the hack learned. He went so far as to find out that in the past, some artists have constructed animals out of wood, just so they would have an excuse to strike a match.

All I can say is, I just hope the Greek contingent visiting this year’s “Burning Man” event know what they’re getting themselves into. I mean, I sure hope they haven’t built a Trojan Horse as their exhibit for this year.

Otherwise, beware Trojans asking… “Got a match?”