Help Wanted: Hare, Ham And Egg’s Oh My!


Hey, it’s almost April folks. Do you know what that means? It means that people the world over start thinking about things like spring, baseball, planting tulips, and Passover. But not me. No sir. Instead, I start having visions, visions of Easter, and boy do I have a few thoughts on that subject.

Good thing too, otherwise this post would be a bust.

Take for instance, Jesus Christ Superstar. The one who refused a standard movie studio contract, shunned publicity, and then went rogue. And to think that that’s “The Greatest Story Ever Told” and this blog can’t touch it. And you wanna know why?

Copyright laws. That’s right, and not just any copyright laws, but copyright laws of biblical proportions!

Then there’s those Easter eggs. No, not those Easter Eggs silly—more about those in a moment. I’m talking about those other Easter eggs, you know the ones… the Faberge Imperial Easter Eggs. The jewel encrusted ones made for the emperor and empress of Russia, way back when. Yeah, those Eggs.



For some stupid reason I never got one of those at Easter time. What a gyp that was!

And that brings me back to those other Easter Eggs, the ones I mentioned earlier. Did you know that when I was a kid, the (slightly) above average kids would always get Easter Baskets filled with multi-colored plastic eggs in them?

Well now you know.

Anyway, they never failed to be filled with candy and toys. A U.S. version of AA grade Easter eggs perhaps?

Then there was the average kids. Those kids whose parents took time to dye shells of real eggs in different colors. Then these parents would go hide them for their kids to go find? I suppose they were the Easter version of U.S. Grade A eggs. Then there was me. All I ever found were the egg shells!

I’m almost certain they were low grade eggs.

Still, I love to think back to Easter and the ham. No, not Jim Carrey (the ham), hamming it up in “Batman Forever” as the Riddler. I’m talking about those Honeybaked ham’s that your mom used to bake on Easter Sunday, the smell of which was as delicious as the taste itself.

And naturally, no Easter post would be complete without mentioning the big guy himself.

But enough about Me.

Let’s talk about the Easter Bunny, shall we? That famed pooka of lore.

One day every year, he travels around the globe hiding colorful looking Easter eggs for all good little girls and boys to find. Adults? Forget about it. Anyway, most of the time they find lots of candy inside, and occasionally they come across one with a toy.

But, every once in awhile they might find one filled with money. Yeah, guess the yoke’s on them.

I’ve often wondered how one would go about getting a job like that—particularly if one were a rabbit? What might one earn? Does one need references? Where would one get those references—especially a rabbit? And could I be one—a rabbit I mean? I like carrots, eat lots of lettuce (my mom and dad made me), and my wife say’s I have big ears.

Now I ask you; what other qualifications does one need to be the Easter Bunny? So yes, I’m going to answer that help wanted ad when the position opens up. In the meantime…

Have a Happy Easter everyone!







Trump: The Political Playbook

How does Trump do it? Does he have some super secret blueprint for running a winning political campaign?


Our crack SUPER spy, who occasionally does contract work for us here at “In My Cluttered Attic,” recently passed himself off as Donald Trump’s hair stylist.

While fumbling through, what passes for his hair, our spy stumbled across Trump’s political playbook.

The Washington Post and New York Times both offered us a substantial amount of money for the story, but we refused the offer.

We knew there were millions more to be made by offering this story to our readers first.

So here, FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME, is the confidential material—sequestered away on top of Donald Trump’s scalp.

It reveals how he has wrestled control away from the Republican elite, while appealing to their basic instinct of—securing more money, more power, and complete control of the country at the publics expense.

The hardest work he has ever done? No, he doesn’t know what hard work is.

So, what is in Trump’s political playbook?

First,: be yourself. This may include acting outlandish and having to draw all the attention to yourself, but think of how freeing this will be to your basic narcissistic inclination.

Be sure to hurl lots of insults at your opponents. This should come naturally to you. It will also help you standout from the millions of other Republican candidates running for president—particularly since you are aspiring to be God.

Call them liars. They may look bewildered and try to act like they don’t know what you’re talking about at first, but being liars themselves, they won’t look genuine at all. Plus, this will deflect all the attention away from the enormous whoppers you are telling!

And whatever you do, make sure you avoid discussing real political issues. However, if while at a debate, political issues should be brought up (sacrilege!), immediately change the subject to your opponent. Accuse them of something stupid, and then say something even more stupid yourself!

Do this in a showy and entertaining way. Make them the apprentice—you know how.

Know your audience. In a revolution, you must appeal to the rich and power-hungry, while still appealing to the uneducated. And, being that you fit both of the aforementioned, you should have no problem with this task.

You will probably have to spell this out for them, but not being able too spell well yourself might make this just another challenge for you.

Also, make the claim, “I love the poor and uneducated.”—they’ll believe you since you’re probably not as rich or educated as you claim to be.

*Note: The actual quote from Donald Trump was, “I love the poorly educated!” Now I was called out on this particular point, and rightly so. So, although this will probably come as a blow to the poor and uneducated folks (who are not enveloped in “The Donald’s” embrace of love) it still might come as a relief to those who are poorly educated.

And if there are some who are revolting within your party (like Mitch McConnell and Paul Ryan), lead them down the garden path by telling them that you we’re just kidding when you said you were going to drain the swamp—since you actually were kidding.

Also, be as outrageous as possible—it worked on “The Apprentice.” Just say “Your fired!” as each one of them drops from the race.

In addition, adopt a look that draws attention to yourself—try putting SOMETHING on your head that looks ridiculous.

This will immediately separate you from the other yahoos in your party. Not even Bernie will be able to compete with you!

Nothing say’s “Sexy” to old frumpy-looking blond women like, like, like whatever it is that’s on your head. They’ll eat you up!

Accuse a candidate from the other party of infiltrating and trying to sabotage your campaign. As if they were really worried you could actually win an election.

This next part is very important; be sure to flip-flop… A LOT!

Not only does it keep your opponents guessing and off balance, it confuses the hell out of the media and public in general!

When in doubt…step on Little Marco. He knows how to flip-flop for you. What’s that? He’s gone already! Well, there’s always Ted Cruz and that other guy—what’s his name?

Never miss a chance to point out how rich you are—since living off the taxpayer will make it look like you really are as rich as your claiming.

This will make it possible for you to say that you can build anything you want. I don’t know what? MAYBE A WALL!

This will come as no surprise to most Americans, as they already have a wall between them and their representatives anyway.

I mean, we already have lobbyist, corporations, and private interest standing between us and our representatives.

So, what’s another wall, right?

Tell your cult following that you have more money than god—probably because he doesn’t use the stuff—but this will throw FEAR (something your party is an expert at) into the hearts of other countries.

Oh, and don’t forget to use fear against Muslims and Hispanics, too—even if they’re American citizens who are bilingual, unlike you. This will distract your base of support from the fact that you yourself barely have command of the English language.

Finally, flash a dopey smile, eat lots of fast food and get fatter, while making sure to act goofy—it becomes you.

It may not look presidential, but no one will ever suspect you of being competently able to lead the country.





“About Bartholomew” My Old Novel Now A New Novella


9a4b0d80-d2fb-4217-a1d9-a6431dffb6e0THE FORWARD: A little about “About Bartholomew’s” Author—We met Paul (the author of this novella) after we became cognizant of the fact that he was our father. Not long after, we discovered that he didn’t know how to take a proper selfie.

We offer this photo as exhibit A. There won’t be an exhibit B—we’re not that cruel.

Our dad is very fond of saying that “About Bartholomew” is an amazing new work of fiction from America’s best unknown blogger. Naturally, this new novella version of his novel will see to it that it stays that way.

We never knew our dad had written so many other fabulous works of fiction, and apparently none of his publishers knew it either.

So, this might serve to explain why he does a blog at WordPress instead, continuing to labor in the shadow of the likes of Steinbeck, Austin, and Hemingway.

That would be Joan Steinbeck, John Austin, and Ernestine Hemingway — their blogs are so much better.

It is with great apprehension that we, his offspring, invite you to read this latest masterpiece from our dad “About Bartholomew.”

It’s been whittled down to a paltry 1437 words to spare you from having to read the (unedited, and unsold) novel.

Please keep in mind this was all made possible by WordPress — so blame them.

The Family.

“I dedicate this story to my wife and children who now will not make one cent off of it —that’s because they laughed all the way through it.” I’ll show them—Paul


CHAPTER ONE: Don’t Go Towards The Light

It was a dark and stormy night, not that he would have noticed, as it was still warm and cozy inside.

He felt closer to her now somehow. Her heart was pounding like a hundred warehouse pumps in an echo chamber. Thump-thump, thump-thump.

“If only I had a pair of earplugs.” Bartholomew, thought himself.

Suddenly, up from down under (no not Australia), he caught sight of a light entering into the room. The ray of light grew brighter and brighter. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like a choir of angels were trying to sing — only they couldn’t carry a tune.

Bartholomew’s eyes gradually widened. Silhouetted against this light were shadowy figures.

He could just make out through his (Ray-Ban) sunglasses (recently purchased online) that the mysterious alien figures were all wearing masks.

His mind raced with a million questions, however, WordPress said I only have room for three.

“Who are these masked figures? What do they want with me? “How did they get access to my womb — room?” That’s when it hit him…


CHAPTER TWO: When Sally Slept With Tom, Dick and Harry… And Bartholomew!

There was only one man in Sally’s life, and that was Harry — and that was after a haircut and a shave. Not counting, of course, Tom (the Uber driver), Dick (the hunky pool boy), and … Bartholomew.

Sure, there were other men in her life, but this is only a novella not a five thousand page novel — as originally intended. So, you’ll never find out who the rest of the guys were — not without a court order anyway.

“But, it’s only Bartholomew for me.” Sally thought. ” And Harry makes two, and okay, all those other guys as well. But, mostly Bartholomew.”

Then, she was hit with an epiphany (and it hurt).

“What if Chris Hemsworth suddenly were available?

“Then Chris will be the only man in my life.” She smiled to herself, happy with that fantasy.

Otherwise, it was going to be Bartholomew… and Tom, and Dick, and Harry. Okay, and all those other guys.

She was satisfied to at least have some outs in case it didn’t work out with Chris.

Harry, on the other hand, came into her life like a millstone — that was earlier in chapter two. Athough, Bartholomew — the younger of the two — won her over without saying a word.

They shared a bed together, and yes, she put up with his babbling and goo gooing and ga gaing all the time. After all, he was her baby. What else could she do?

Put him up for adoption? Not hardly— because that would have required my having to write an extra chapter.

Meanwhile, Harry was wrestling with a whole different issue, and that issue was, Bartholomew.

“It’s not possible!” he thought. “She couldn’t have been pregnant, we never had sex!


And Bartholomew did.

Still in shock from having been forcibly evicted from his tiny apartment by total strangers who were not midwives (and with forceps) Bartholomew was furious.

He swore revenge on the people responsible for his eviction — especially since they gave him no notice — and unleashed an act of revenge so diabolical, other parents of the world took note.

He started asking ‘WHY?’ to everything.”

Told you it was diabolical.

CHAPTER FOUR: A Colorful Narrative… In Black an White

The wind was howling the way coyote’s howl at the moon,

“Ahwooo…wooo…wooo…wooo!” Trees bending with each howl.

“You, tree on the left, bend that way. You, tree on the right, bend the other way.” said the wind — and a bottle of twelve-year old scotch.

A swift gale caused the night owls (bar hoppers) to fly backwards.

While real night owls got a hoot out of witnessing the sight. There they were, a bunch of drunks frantically flapping their arms about in an effort to stand upright while being blown backwards.

Of course, none of the above narrative has anything to do with the rest of the story, but I had to put it somewhere in the manuscript. So, why not in chapter four, right?

CHAPTER FIVE: All The Dramatic Moments You Missed While Reading The Colorful Narrative In Chapter Four

There was an exciting plane crash into Vatican City. Take my word for it, it was action packed!

Then the Pope pulled out a pearl handle gun from his shoulder holster — the papacy allows its use only in extreme emergencies — and he shot it out with a bunch of clowns from a traveling Circus.

There was a thrilling fight to the death atop Mt. Everest with a Sherpa who was dressed as a llama. This involved two characters who had absolutely nothing else to do with the story.

A “Great Flood of Jello” wiggled its way down the buttes into the Mojave Desert at midday and wiping out some odious traveling nomads who were searching for the mysterious birth place of Bartholomew.

Then the enchanting conclusion, where Bartholomew breaks into song joined by the entire town of Bakersfield, California (in a completely unrehearsed, beautifully choregraphed song and dance number) singing the title tune from the book.

This was followed by a revelation (at a masquerade party gone wrong) by Sally of who Bartholomew’s real father was, and it’s not Tom (the Uber driver), Dick (the hunky pool boy), or even Harry the boyfriend, but Jerry the mailman!

Jerry immediately swore to Tom, Dick, and Harry (as they were about to go all Bruce Lee on him) that he had nothing to do with the weird title character’s immaculate conception and that it was some hack with a red nose wearing pajamas (with footies) who was the real person irresponsible for the weird biographical invention and that none of what was written was true.

Of course, none of them bought poor Jerry’s preposterous story, and so he never made a dime from it. However, the author will.

You see, it’s not what you think, it’s what you imagine.


BACK FLAP—Paul is the best selling (albeit, delusional) author of two children’s books.

“The Marshmallow Man is a Smore Fluffy Fellow than you Realize”. And the classic, “Why I Write with Two Hyphens because Two Hyphens are Never Two Too Many.

Pauly The Clod: Creator Of Neat Sheets.

It’s true, I am the creator of neat sheets—just only AFTER I’ve pressed that publish button. And even then my polished copy still looks a lot like Sweeney Todd had at it.

This is a story of reconstructive surgery—the blogging kind. On any given day you’ll open up your WordPress account and find bloggers from around the world, each of whom have written sheets and sheets of clean polished copy. All to be examined by you, the reader.

But before that can happen there’s a process called… editing.

Before every blogger publishes something, they go about sewing up their original draft. They do this by making a few new word incisions here, and a couple of sentence resections there.

Everyone except me, that is.

The skillful blogger will remove misspelled words, poor punctuation, bad grammar, and replace each with grammatically working parts. This they do, all BEFORE they press the publish button.

But not me…oh no.

Most bloggers will not submit their poetry, daily drama, photo essays, or humor until their writing has undergone an extensive amount of x-ray like proof-reading. This is likely followed by a little fact-checking before they prescribe some well tested, and time honored  grammatical remedies.

And this whole operation is scheduled and completed on time, so that the readers can get on with their daily lives. Again, all BEFORE… they press that publish button. How do they do it?

These bloggers are skillfully trained pros at what they do. Some have even attended four year universities and demonstrated their education by dissecting their post, BEFORE submitting it for public viewing.

They may even have served an internship writing copy for some big name magazine or newspaper. Some may even have gained some valuable experience in private practice—working on a novel or short story.

And then there’s me…

“The Butcher of WordPress” way too skilled in the art of skewering the English language to even be mentioned in the same breath as the a fore mentioned group of SKILLED PEOPLE.

You see, in my case, the entire act of cutting and slicing away of diseased copy from any post, has become something of an arduous never-ending task. Akin to a surgeon who faces malpractice suits at the drop of a pair of Metzenbaum scissors.

However, this does not exonerate WordPress and their administrators either—including their chief of staff.

They too, are guilty of some atrocious cases of malpractice themselves. They might even be bigger quacks than myself. Why one routine examination of their numerous platform changes could tell you that.

Yet… am I a qualified and successful writing specialist, worthy of being included on the WordPress staff of writers?

Qualified? Are you kidding? I barely graduated Pre-Read! The only residency I’ve ever done was Post OP (Post Operation on a article after pressing Publish). There, I’m an expert in private practice as I perpetually correct every post I write—but unfortunately…AFTER I’ve pressed the publish button.

Meaning: none of my posts are ever finished.

In fact, many of my articles (try all of them) fall prey to reconstructive surgery LONG AFTER I’ve pressed the publish (PANIC) button. Making changes in my text, totally visible to readers.

LIKE SCAR TISSUE—you can’t miss them!

Am I proud of this kind of corrective writing surgery? Sometimes, but I do confess, it often looks like I’m still stitching the piece together after agonizing over the original post… for all of three minutes.

But you must remember, when you leave a scalpel in the body of your work (or post as the case may be), you should still try to go back and perform surgery and correct your mistakes. Yes, it may prove to be a little uncomfortable for the patient—sort of like, performing major surgery without anesthesia—but you may avoid that writing malpractice claim.

This may explain to my readers (patients all) why my posts, and their appearance, seem to evolve like poor Meg Ryan’s face has over the years.

It’s like getting schooled in the art of editing… and yet it still looks bad!

Naturally, this whole post will likely rewrite itself in about a week. Why this sentence alone is proof of that—since I added it just this morning, along with numerous other changes.

So, if in a week you come back to take another stab at reading this gobbledygook—if you are into that kind of torture—you might just discover a whole new post.

The clean up blogger of neat sheet? Uh… well sure… AFTER I’ve made thousands of corrections AFTER pressing the publish button—thus sending the post out uncleaned and unpolished into the blogosphere.

Why, I’d even bet there’s some joker out there right now muttering to himself about how this post still looks grammatically wrong. As always, that mutterer knows best.

That’s because… I’m STILL revising this post even as we speak, and might continue to do so right on up until the end of time!