Once Upon A Time…

I was greeted with uncontrollable laughter by my family.

Why, you ask?

Well, it could have had something to do with the Boy-Blunder—pictured (unmasked) below—snapping my picture (sans my secret identity) while I was sitting in my Batmobile? But no.

Alright, so that wasn’t the only reason for all the howls of  laughter. You see, I also attempted to bribe my girls with Monopoly money (just the most valuable currency on the planet, particularly with hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place) into writing this bio for me.

Naturally, I took their laughter to mean they’d rather I write my own pack of lies.

And so I did!

Let me begin by saying, that I had always hoped one day I might have a brush with fame. When I finally discovered (212 years later) that there was no such brush—except for the one named, Fuller—I suddenly realized I would have to find another way to waste (or kill as the mob likes to call it) time. So bingo: this absurd (but remarkably silly) blog was born.

Meaning: some maternity ward out there has an awful lot of explaining to do.

Now, this may be the most bizarre blog you’ve ever come across—if you don’t count Hairy Margaret’s “I’m Not that Kind of Boy” blog over on some other nameless platform—but I doubt it.

Yet, I (and stunningly) my wife, were determined not to publicize my blog.

This explains why you’ve never seen any annoying ads for my blog over on YouTube or on some billboard along a major freeway. That, and the fact that my wife won’t let me spend thousands of dollars promoting this blog might also have had a little something to do with it—but I digress.

I had always dreamed—from age five on in fact—that one day I might achieve total anonymity by creating a blog on WordPress.

The doctors told me that I must have been dreaming about doing a personal journal. But, then lightening struck, and aside from the smell of burning flesh (and a need for some new clothes) I managed to accomplish the exact same thing with this blog of mine—AND WITH EVEN FEWER READERS!

(Here I feel compelled to write the following disclaimer.)

In this blog (if you are a member of the grammar police) you will find bad grammer (hee hee), pour puntuation (ha ha), and dreadful speling. You’re welcome, grammar police. You might also require a translator when reading any of my posts—as I’m quite the expert in writing the incomprehensible.

So feel free to bring that translator: it’ll add to my stats—say nothing of my ego.

Influences? I’ve had many … just never on anyone else. I include this fact to spare you anxiety over your reading any further—in case you’re addicted to Benzodiazepines.

The following detail might reveal more than you wish to know about me, but I’m going to risk it—just for you.

I’M A LEO!

WELL I GUESS THE CATS OUT OF THE BAG NOW so I might as well come clean and tell you the rest of the story.

I own a smart phone, a tablet, and yes…a television—complete with remote!

I’ll pause to let you recover from that revelation.

You want more? No, no I don’t mind, besides you’re bound to find out anyway ’cause I’m about to type up some more facts.

See, one day my youngest said that the remote didn’t belong to me. Can you believe it? He then went on to say that he wanted it back or he’d call mom.

Ha, ha, ha I almost didn’t have the heart to tell him mom also happens to be my wife—not that that would carry any weight, given my hopeless situation at that particular moment.

Anyway, I’d always felt possession was 99.9% of the law, that is until my wife asked me to give the remote back to him, or I might not have a leg (legal or otherwise) to stand on when she got home. I always suspected that she meant that literally. Ever since I’ve discovered that my wife is usually right—about 99.9% of the time.  

Psst, wanna know a secret? Okay, I’ll tell you anyway.

I’ve heard it said that if you keep one finger over the delete button on your keyboard, you probably know the one I’m talking about—NO, not that one!—that you can actually maintain peace and harmony in your house.

Mind you, I’ve never really had to put that to the test yet, because I suspect my family feels that if I ever did … POOF… we’d all be gone in a flash drive accident.

I wouldn’t bet on it though. I’d hate being responsible for my friends losing money—’cause they usually want it back!

Oh, please be advised: don’t try this delete button thing at home as results may vary. In any case, this measure should never be attempted by a wife—the delete button is only husband approved.

The preceding was a public service announcement.

Well that’s the bio. Best work of fiction, balderdash, and poppycock I’ve ever written and it reads like a bad novel don’t you think? Feel free not to answer that question.

No, really!

All the same, you’re all welcomed here “In My Cluttered Attic” anytime. I’m gratified you—or anyone for that matter—had the courage to venture in this far.

Oh, and I should probably mention that there’s no financial reward for the five minutes you just lost reading this rather flimsy bio.

But I want you to know your reading it, and any comments you might share below (a noble sacrifice on your part to be sure) will be duly noted in “The Attic” book of history…

Uh, when I get around to creating one that is. Thank you for reading and welcome to “The Attic.”   😀

Paul

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