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

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funny-pics-fun.com

funny-pics-fun.com

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.

news.artnet,com

news.artnet,com

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.

whatculture.com

whatculture.com

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

“The Donald” how does he do it? Does he have some super secret blueprint for running a winning political campaign? Well not anymore!

Why you ask? Because a crack SUPER spy from, “In My Cluttered Attic” (posing as Donald Trump’s hair stylist) was able to lift his book of secrets right from within Mr. Trumps hair…while doing his usual crack styling job.

spyversusspy.wikia.com

spyversusspy.wikia.com

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 the story to our readers first.

So here, FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME, is the confidential material—sequestered away under Donald Trump’s scalp—revealing how he’s wrestled control away from the Republican Party’s elite. A book so secret “The Donald” himself didn’t have time to name it. So we’ve done that for him. We call this little treasure…

Trump: The Political Playbook.

First, you must learn to be yourself. Act outlandish and draw attention to yourself by hurling insults (we think he’s a natural at this). This will help you standout from the millions of other Republicans running. You can also call them liars. They will all look bewildered at you—not knowing who you mean—since they’re all guilty of lying themselves.

That’s what all politicians do.

And whatever you do, make sure you avoid discussing real political issues. If (ha!) political issues should be brought up in a debate, immediately change the subject to your opponent. Accuse your opponent of something stupid, and then say something even more stupid yourself! But be sure to do this in an entertaining way.

These days it’s called…politics.

Also, know your audience. In a revolution, you must appeal to the poor and uneducated. You will probably have to spell this out for them, as they may not know that they are the poor and uneducated. So remind them of this by saying, “I love the poor and uneducated.”—that should remove all doubt.

*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 (not being enveloped in “The Donald’s” embrace of love), I suspect this will at least come as a relief to the poorly educated.—

And if there are some who are revolting (hee, hee) within your party, take over and lead them. That way, no one will see you coming. and you can use it to your advantage. Be as outrageous as possible—I know it’s hard for you, but try. Oh, and tell them, “Your fired!” as each one drops out of the race.

Think of the free publicity that would generate; Hey, it worked on The Apprentice!

In addition, you might adopt a look that draws attention to yourself, separating you from the other yahoos in your party. This means (trying to be subtle here), that nothing (I mean nothing) says sexy like whatever it is that you’re wearing on your head? NOTHING!

Oh well… we tried.

Also, make sure to accuse a candidate from the other party (yeah, there’s two) of infiltrating your people, and trying to sabotage your campaign. Suggest that many of your revolutionaries are his young revolutionaries come to join you. That he can’t afford to compete with the kind of publicity your money can buy.

ricochet.com

ricochet.com

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 also confuses the hell out of the media—and the 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, and that this makes it possible for you to say, do, or build anything you want—MAYBE EVEN A GIANT WALL! This will come as no surprise to most Americans, as they already have a wall between them and their representatives…

Called lobbyist, corporations, and private interest—so what’s another wall, right?

Remind them all that money is power and 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 be sure to use this fear against Muslims and Hispanics, too. Because you can.

Wait: some of them ARE Americans?

Oh well, that’s okay take the offensive. After all, the American people are already offended and fear their own congress—And your party runs it! Talk about an oxymoron—so this will be nothing new for them.

And lastly, turn around and throw all that money and power back in the face of the party of money and power—YEAH, YOUR OWN PARTY-THE DO NOTHING PARTY UNLESS IT BENEFITS THE RICH—and throw them a party!

Claim it as your own party and go do whatever it is you want with it, and tell them they can all go suck lemons.

WAIT A MINUTE!

There aren’t any secrets here. We’re still baffled about his appeal. We’ve been duped. Where is that crack spy of ours? Hey… don’t you know none of this stuff is top secret? It’s all public knowledge, you moron. Hope you have a resume because here’s your notice…

You’re Fired!!!

 

 

 

 

“About Bartholomew” : A Novella

 “ABOUT BARTHOLOMEW”

9a4b0d80-d2fb-4217-a1d9-a6431dffb6e0THE FORWARD: About Bartholomew’s Author—We first met Paul, when we found out he married our mom, and then had us. Shortly thereafter, we discovered he was terrible at taking selfies (We offer this photograph as exhibit A. We won’t offer an exhibit B, we’re not that evil) as the selfies make his nose look as big as it really is.

What’s odd, is how it continuously shows up red in photos. Did he once sniff up a retina?

He likes to say that this short story (yeah right) is an amazing new work of fiction from one of America’s best UNKNOWN BLOGGER’S. This novella will likely keep it that way.

We bet you didn’t know that our dad has wrote fabulous works of fiction (true story) for some of the best publishers in the business. He has been doing so for years—and look where it has gotten him. Now you know why we made that bet—he intends to leave us destitute.

He has also wrote some really wonderful articles for the best magazines in the country—but to no avail (now that’s fictitious!). Yet, he continues to labor in the shadow of names like Steinbeck, Hemingway, Austin, and Twain—deservedly so!

We invite you to read (his latest masterpiece Ha, ha, ha,ha!), “About Bartholomew” (a paltry 1437 words) at your own risk.

But, only if you have no choice, someone has a gun at your back, or if you’ve recently lost your mind…in which case you may have already read it!—because it was all made possible thanks to WordPress—so please blame…them.

His Family.

“I dedicate this story to my wife and children, who will not make a dime off of it—including the millions of dollars that I myself hope to make from it. Because, they laughed all the way through it.”—Paul

“ABOUT BARTHOLOMEW”

CHAPTER ONE: Don’t Go Towards The Light!

It was a dark and stormy night. Isn’t it always? Not that he would have noticed, as it was warm and cozy inside. Somehow, he felt closer to her now. Her heart was pounding, like hundreds of warehouse pumps in an echo chamber.

How could he not feel closer to her?

Suddenly, up from down under (no, not Australia), a light entered into the small room. It grew brighter, and brighter, and brighter still, until finally… you know how it sounds when a choir of angels begin ahhhing, and then a heavenly light descends down upon you? It was like that.

(A feeling this writer knows all too well. You’ve never experienced that kind of feeling? Well invest in a Styrofoam halo after a night of heavy drinking. What a wild sensation that is, let me tell ya!)

As Bartholomew’s eyes gradually began to adjust to the light, he was able to just make out some shadowy figures staring back at him.

Through his (Ray-Ban) sunglasses (purchased online from a “Babies Are Us”), he could see that the figures were all wearing masks. Panicky, he thought to himself, “Who are these masked figures? What do they want of me? “How did they get access to my womb? Uh…room?” And that’s when it hit him…

“Hey, I’m naked here!”

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

For Sally, there was only one man for her, Harry. Even after a shave and a haircut, he’d still be Harry—but he was her man, and so was Tom the Uber driver, Dick the hunky pool boy, and… then there was Bartholomew.

(Oh sure, there were others. But this is a novella, not a five thousand page novel, so get over it. You’re never going to find out who the rest of them were—not without a court order, anyway.)

Sally thought to herself, “It’s only Bartholomew and Harry for me. They’ll always be the only two men in my life.”

And then she was hit with an epiphany,

“What if Brad Pitt should leave Angelina and show a decided interest in moi?”

“Well, Brad will be the only man in my life then.” She smiled to herself, happy in her dream, “Otherwise, it’ll just be Bartholomew… and Tom, and Dick, and Harry. Okay… and Brad too, who I’ll never forget, should he change his mind and fall for me—BIG TIME!”

She was satisfied, that at least she would have outs in case it didn’t work out with, Brad.

Harry had come into her life like some kind of pile driver during chapter two. Although, Bartholomew—the younger of the two—won her over without ever 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, but he was her baby! What else was she supposed to do… put him up for adoption?

That might have meant an extra chapter for the writer of this—soon to be—masterpiece.

Meanwhile, Harry was wrestling with a whole different issue. That of… Bartholomew. “It’s not possible!” he thought. “She wasn’t pregnant, and we never even had sex!” Harry exclaimed, to no one in particular, just those of you reading this. “It has to be an immaculate conception! Only possible explanation.” he concluded.

CHAPTER THREE: Act Two!

And Bartholomew did. In shock from being evicted from his tiny apartment, and by total strangers who were not midwives—or from the Department of Health—he had been scarred by the experience. (poor tyke)

“It was probably the forceps.” he thought to himself. “After all, who uses forceps anymore?” His thoughts were very evolved for a two-year old.

Anyway, the last two years left him with a terrible diaper rash, so he was quite irritated.

He swore revenge on the two people responsible for his eviction—especially since they gave him no written notice. He’d unleash an act of revenge, so diabolical, that even other parents of the world would suffer. He plotted to do the unthinkable.

“I will take to asking my parents the question of…WHY… at every chance I get.” (Told you it was diabolical.)

CHAPTER FOUR: A Colorful Narrative… In Black And White

news.psu.edu

news.psu.edu

The wind was howling the way coyote’s howl at the moon, “Ahwooo…wooo…wooo…wooo!” Trees bending to its every whim “You bend that way branch on the left and you bend the other way branch on the right.” (the wind talking—and a bottle of twelve-year old scotch), as the force of the swift gale caused night owls to fly backwards.

People are not used to flying backwards. Say nothing of flying at all—especially while not in an airplane. Meanwhile, the other night owls (real ones), were getting quite a hoot out of watching people frantically flapping their arms about in an effort to stay afloat in the gusty winds.

Of course, none of this descriptive narrative has anything at all to do with our story. But it had to go someplace—as every story has them. So I thought it better to put the colorful narrative all in one chapter.

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

There was the exciting plane crash into the Vatican. You’ll have to take my word for it, it was action packed!

The Pope has to pull out his pearl handle gun from his shoulder holster—which the papacy is allowed to use in extreme emergencies—and then shoot it out with a bunch of clowns from a traveling Circus.

Then there was that thrilling fight to the death atop Mt. Everest with a Sherpa—who was not actually a Sherpa at all, but a llama assassin… in disguise!

And the “Great Flood of Jello” which wiggled its way down the buttes of the Mojave Desert at midday, wiping out some odious traveling nomads searching for the birth place of Bartholomew.

Which, as it turns out, wasn’t very important after all.

And finally the enchanting conclusion. Where, in the “Magical Town of Bakersfield” Bartholomew suddenly breaks into song, with the entire town, who sing the title tune with him—which, by the way, none of them bothered to rehearse—revealing who it was that slept with his mother. And it isn’t who you thought it was, either. It was…

THE END—and rightly so—because how can you top a twist ending like that?

BACK FLAP—Paul is a best selling author who is also a (delusional) successful writer of children’s books which include, “The Marshmallow Man Is A Hard-Hearted Fellow” and “Grow-Up You Cry-Baby And Learn To Use 2-Many Hyphens Because 3 Too Many Hyphens Makes No Sense At All!”

Pauly The Clod: Creator Of Neat Sheets.

visitwindsoressex.com

visitwindsoressex.com

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!