How Merlin Found Himself In The Court Of King Arthur

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Most of you have probably heard of Merlin the great wizard who once tutored King Arthur of Camelot. But, I bet you didn’t know Merlins real name was actually, Marvin Popplebottom. It’s true, of course, all that was back when Marvin was still working at a Denny’s in Hoboken, New Jersey — where he’d worked as a dishwasher in training for nearly 58 years.

As big a story as that might be, though, it pales in comparison to the story of how Merlin (first known as, Marvin) came to be in King Arthur’s court. That ones a real doozy!

Stardate 3364.12, the evening Marvin arrived home after watching the latest Rocky sequel — Rocky CVIII — down at the local cinema. He walked in, flipped on “60 Minutes” just in time to catch the breaking news about ‘The Borg” (Earth’s greatest menace), having just launched a full-scale Thermonuclear attack on earth and all its inhabitants. Yes, our planet’s imminent destruction was only minutes away.

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Now history tells us, Merlin, lived in reverse. In other words, he arrived in Camelot having come from the future. But how? Well, that calls for a little back-story.

Marvin (in need of some wheels), had recently gone down to the local CARFAX in search of a used motorized wheelchair. The dealer escorted Marvin to the backlot where, sitting under a tarp, was this odd-looking machine.

The dealer — believing Marvin to be a real pigeon — immediately launched into his sales pitch, telling Marvin that the vehicle before him was the last known prototype of H. G Wells time machine, and as luck would have it, that he (the dealer) had been unable to sell it because — it came with no wheels!

Now, unbeknownst to the dealer, Marvin (an avid H.G. Wells fan) instantly recognized the time machine as being the real deal and offered the dealer his last $84 dollars, all he had left in his pocket. With tax and licensing it came in at a little under $87 and 12 cents — $86 and 10 cents to be precise. Marvin, went home, broke into his piggy bank, and returned to the dealership with the balance.

Both men shook hands on the deal and the time machine was delivered to Marvin’s basement later that afternoon where it sat waiting for just the right moment for Marvin to give it a try.

Well, upon hearing that The Borg were about to annihilate earth and all its inhabitants, Marvin — having become a recent convert to the idea that ones future might lie in the past — felt the moment to test that idea (and his time machine) had suddenly arrived.

With only minutes to spare, Marvin raced down to the courthouse and had his name legally changed to Merlin the Magician. No one really knows why —not even this writer.

Then donning some vacation attire, he quickly took a correspondance course in magic from the director of the Magic Castle — Neal Patrick Harris — before leaping into his time machine and pulling back the throttle only to be sent skidding into the past at a breakneck speed — without his time machine.

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Not exactly what he was expecting, but effectively escaping earth just as it was being obliterated.

Probably the best $86.10 anyone ever spent.

Now traveling backwards in time, Marvin began absorbing all the accumulated knowlege of man, along with many of the advancements throughout the centuries.

For example; he learned what kind of berries and mushrooms not to eat by watching other dummies keel over and die after randomly sampling a few of the wrong kind — and without there ever having consulted the Food and Drug Administration to see if they were safe to eat in the first place.

He also discovered how two-ply toilet tissue always felt infinitly better to that of being squirted on the backside with water from a little fountain inside a Bidet.

Naturally, this sort of knowledge helped Merlin win over King Arthur shortly after he slid into Camelot.

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There was nothing Merlin couldn’t accomplish. Turn Arthur into other animals to learn how they think? No problem. Better another upstart wizard in a duel? Done! Merlin could even wash dishes with just a wave of his wand — not that he needed a wand since he already had 58 years of experience.

Those living in the dark ages … never stood a chance. Until, that incident with the convertible.

What convertible, you ask? The one Arthur’s next door neighbor, Sir Gwain, had sitting in his driveway. It was a bright red Farrari Portofino with black leather interior. No one knows how, or where he got it, but there were rumors that a mysterious Lady of the Lake might have had something to do with it.

Arthur wanted that car. But, being that it was already regestered to Sir Gwain (and not for sale) Arthur went to Merlin instead.

Arthur said to Merlin, “Make me a convertible like Sir Gwain’s.” To which, Merlin replied, “Horsefeathers.” Arthur, perturbed at Merlin, then asked “What do you mean saying ‘horsefeathers’ to me? I’m the king!”

Merlin went on to explain that he would need a few horsefeathers in order to accomplish Arthur’s request.

So, the next day, Arthur returned with a few horsefeathers with Merlin performing some kind of incantation and … POOF!

Arthur became a convertible —complete with four wheel drive!

“What have you done?” said the king, now a bright red Farrari.

“I turned you into a convertible just like you asked.” replied the befuddled wizard.

Well, the next thing you know, Merlin was hauled into King Arthur’s Court and put on trial for performing witchcraft — but without a license.

Under cross examination Merlin lost it and finally had had enough. Forgetting himself, and viewing the whole mess as a pit stop gone wrong, Merlin stood up and screamed that famous quote from the Disney film “The Sword in the Stone”…

“Well, blow me to Bermuda!” Only, he had forgotten there was no Bermuda to be blown too.

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Anyway, god only knows where he went. But … at least Merlin (Marvin) could say that he had his day in court.

Uh … King Arthur’s Court.

And that’s how Merlin found himself in the court of King Arthur.

 

 

 

 

 

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How A Post Was Born

Jersey City Improv

Sometimes it takes a while to come up with a quality idea that you can write as a post for your blog.

Even the non-quality ideas, like those which frequently pass for Tall Tales on this site — of which this is one.

I suppose that could explain why some folks eventually abandon their blogs. But, lets face it, ideas for posts don’t grow on trees.

Unless you’re an Arboriculturalist — where you then turn your posts into instruction manuals on how to cultivate trees and shrubs.

But, here at WordPress, bloggers seldom seem all that desperate for something to write about. Then there’s me, who can take a number of topics, scribble them down on tiny pieces of paper, dump them all into a bowl — and I still manage to fail at coming up with a post.

But not today, folks, because today I didn’t have a clue what I was going to write about — until now.

Which is why I’ve decided to tell you all about, “The Legend of Sterling Cloud.”

Sterling Cloud was an average run-of-the-mill guy — except for his name. Just like every other guy who has two ears, two eyes, two arms, two legs — two everything — maybe even two noses and two mouths!

Finding A Healing Place

Yes, Sterling is unique. I mean, really unique, because Sterling is a true silver-tongue devil. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth—everything he licks turns to silver.

That’s right. You saw Lady Gaga’s hair at The Academy Awards?

He licked it.

Utensils, platters, and coins, if Sterling licks them — Silver Alert!

The Jewellery Editor

One time, he was down this shaft in Nevada — which later became a silver mine — and someone dropped him a line. He grabbed it…

And it became a silver-lining—his silver lining.

Some would say, “Every Cloud has a silver lining.” but, I’m not entirely sure about that  — we haven’t met his parents yet.

However, I can tell you women call him the Silver Fox and at the beach, the Silver Surfer. And every Christmas, he’s never lacking for silver bells. Plus, he’s become quite famous for creating the silver screen.

He got a 27 inch TV for his birthday—and kissed it.

Also, he was the equestrian rider at the Summer Olympics who exclaimed “Hi Ho Silver, Away!” to his horse — only to have this happen to it.

Yet, not one silver medal.

That’s when he came walking into our bar and began knocking down Silver Bullets — Sterling, is rather fond of drinking Coors Light.

The Bar was called The Red Brick Inn back then, because it was made out of red bricks.  All that changed after he started drinking there.

Now folks call it, The Bar of Silver.

Seems word got out that when Sterling gets intoxicated, he’s starts staggering around and running into walls —locking lips with bricks.

Now, everyone is bringing in bricks in hopes that Sterling will pucker up and kiss their bricks.

Needless to say, he goes through an awful lot of lip balm, and the locals — a lot of bricks.

And that’s “The Legend of Sterling Cloud” and — How A Post Was Born.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All That Glitters

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Ever since the dawn of man our pursuit for items of value has driven us to acquire and stockpile commodities, currencies, precious metals, and collectibles of every kind.

Assets, that’s the name of the game folks.

Acquiring as many valuables as we can possibly lay our hands on, that’s what its all about. Obtaining anything of value like goods, property, or any kind of treasure.

If there’s something we can stake the cash equivalent to—count us in. If old man Midas wants it—we want it too. Capital? You bet!

I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking; Paul, hasn’t the time where cavemen could afford such treasures long since gone the way of the Dodo—or to the top one percent in the 2018 tax cut?

Perhaps.

Wait a tic. Any of you happen to know where I could lay my hands on an extinct Dodo? Talk about a golden goose!

No? well … it was worth a try.

Where was I?

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Oh yeah. “THEY” have been known to claim, “All that glitters is not gold.”

But, what do “THEY” truly know anyway?

Other than being experts on unsolicited opinions by taxi drivers or old wives tales—probably nothing.

Especially when it comes to a subject as vast as “All that glitters.”

I, on the other hand, know all there is to know about “All that glitters” and… the coming Dot.Glitter bubble.

And that just might make me about as valuable to you—as any other Dodo!

It’s true, there will soon be a thing called the Dot.Glitter bubble, and I’m the guy who can get you in on the ground floor of this next big economic boom—because I misplaced my keys to their upstairs office.

No problem, though, ’cause I know the upstairs night watchman, Marty. So there should be no problem when it comes to moving up the ladder—or into the executive washroom.

Just hope Martys awake when we get there ’cause he’s 93 years old—but he still has a spring in his step.

How do I know that, you ask?

Well the last visitor to go upstairs was vaulted through the ceiling after he stepped on a spring in that step—step-ladder that is.

My head still hurts. You know, it’s amazing I didn’t get brain-damage?

Anyway, watch your step when climbing that ladder—and lets hope he remembers which step the spring was on.

Of course, that’s not what this post is really about. This post is about how to get your hands on all that bling…

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Glitter, if you will.

I can understand your being a little skeptical and all. I was too at first. But, then came my brain scan, and everything became clear as day—a foggy day.

It was on that foggy day, while attending class at William McKinley grade school, that Ms. Louisa May Thornapple (my Kindergarten teacher) announced to our class that we were all going to be making Valentine Cards for mommy and daddy.

The other kids began meticulously cutting out paper and using glue on their crayon drawn cards, while I got busy emptying colorful glitter all over my two cards.

Needless to say, this left absolutely nothing for any of my classmates.

Ms. Thornapple took one look at my two cards—and the empty glitter containers—and pulled me up out of my chair and exclaimed to the whole class…

“Children, this stuff is way too valuable to waste like that!”

I knew she had to be talking about the glitter, because there was still plenty of Elmer’s Glue-All left in the one gallon jug up on the shelf—and the half empty jug on my desk.

I mean, what else could she have possibly been screaming about, right?

It was then—while I was being dragged down the hallway by my left earlobe to the principal’s office—that I realized I held the key to the next big boom in the stock market.

GLITTER!

I figure the jokes on Ms. Thornapple, because while she was going to spend the next several decades teaching 5 year olds, I was going to be making a fortune in the (soon to be booming) Glitter market.

I decided to start out small at first by buying up every single ounce of glitter I could lay my hands on from my fellow classmates—sometimes for as little as pennies on the dollar.

Eventually, though, I suspect the little tykes got wise to my short-changing them, and they began nickleing and diming me to death!

Naturally, I caved in to their asking price, because I knew one day I’d be able to command as much as $100 (or more) for an ounce of the valuable stuff.

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Over the years I’ve spent thousands of dollars for glitter—all while maxing out my high-interest credit cards.

All, that I might corner the glitter market.

I even went back and bought up all of Ms. Thornapple’s supply of the stuff.

She claimed it was all gimcrackery anyway.

What an ill-informed edumacated person.

Today, I’m prepared to pass on to you (my loyal readers) inside-trader information about the soon to be, Dot.Glitter Boom.

I’m offering you as many one ounce bottles of glitter (in any color) as you can possibly buy from me right now, and all at the rock-bottom price of only…

$50 a ounce!

That’s right, only $50 an ounce guarantees you a chance to get in on the new Dot.Glitter bubble,

Then, you can turn around and ask $100—or more—from all the other suckers—uh … customers.

Then we all get rich together!

It’s okay, there’s no need to thank me—I’m used to being a visionary.

So … how many ounces can I put you down for?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Whatever Happened To…

Whatever happened to what’s-his-name? One minute he was there, and the next … POOF! He was gone.

Have you ever left your blog for a time and wondered if anyone was curious about what had happened to you?

We all step away from our blogs from time-to-time with the knowledge that when we return, our blogs will still be there, patiently waiting for us. But, what about our readers, will they?

For instance: Did my readers miss me?

After all, I’d been missing for nine months. In that time, did anyone wonder if I’d abandoned my blog in favor of working on a new one? Not that I’m sugessting that “Blogger” offered me a fortune to come write for them—but.

Or, were they thinking I left because I had to give someone the slip—maybe the IRS perhaps? May have to wait until April 15th—give or take a day or two—to know for sure.

Then again, maybe my readers were wondering if I was getting paid to write—under an nom de plume—for some legitimate (or even illegitimate) rag? If only I could say, handsomely.

Perhaps they were thinking I’d been abducted by aliens in a UFO for the purpose of being experimented on. Only to be proclaimed their supreme leader!

I declined, by the way.

Of course, there’s always the chance I was ordered to stay off of social media by some well known platform because my writing was nothing short of pure genius, and they were so jealous that they simply couldn’t stand it anymore?

Not that that’s exactly what happened.

There’s another possibility: The possibility that I took up residence at the local cemetery. Hopefully as a caretaker.

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So after nine months away from my blog, I became curious about what questions my readers—who were still trapped here—were asking in regards to my whereabouts?

That’s when I broke into a new WordPress statistical page.

So top secret—not even WordPress knows about it yet!

And guess what I discovered?

I discovered that only 30% of you (what a relief) didn’t care where I went. And that another 62% of you had never even heard of me—or my blog.

Which left, the more morbid of you (around 8%), to wonder how I died.

That kind of speculation ran from the basic …”How DID he die?” to, “Was it a gruesome death?

Did they mean—as opposed to a more pleasant one?”

One guy, who lives in Columbia, even went so far as to claim I was thrown into an volcano as a human-sacrifice by jungle tribesmen—who were all on the WordPress payroll.

Another fellow believed I swallowed a whole cow and that that was how I’d met my demise.

It was a fishstick, Jose, not a whole cow—sorry to disappoint you.

A few of you, though, felt my absence was due to nothing more than having been worked to death by my employers, who wouldn’t hear of it—even if it were true.

And finally, there was Eddie (from Wikileaks) who suspected my WordPress account had been hacked—BY WORDPRESS.

6e1fdc84a89f5da1ff66cd57cfac1108Sure, it would have been easier to admit that I was abducted by aliens—who then tried to fry my brain.

But, that would have required my having to clear up why I was unable to gain access to their onboard computers—all antiquated Texas Instruments TI-99/4’s with dial up—and posting on my blog.

An adventure for another post—one I’m far too lazy to attempt right now.

In any event, Texas Instruments TI-99/4’s are hardly suitible for sending posts across the galaxy.

Which is why I decided against telling you about my abduction by aliens from Gravitar 4. A small, but significant rock located on the outskirts of our solar system—bent on our destruction.

There’s also the chance such a ridiculous story—no matter how true—would not have excused my prolonged absence.

Unless, you all felt I could get away it?

All the same, I haven’t told any whoppers since October of 72. That’s when I told the Air Force about Billy Preston—my arch enemy from the 5th grade—who stole one of their top secret plans—while we were on a field trip to Area 51.

Nothing more than a prank on my part. But, I never had to deal with Billy again!

In fact, I haven’t seen Billy since—nor has anyone else come to think of it. Wonder what he’s up to these days?

The important thing is I’m back and blogging again. And that’s all that really matters.

Right?

 

 

 

 

 

The Last Word On Famous Last Words

 

“A few words about last words, from the beloved CEO of “The Attic”—whose words here, our not our words.” Signed: the employees of “The Attic”

Yes, it’s true, I’ve returned!

See, last May, when I decided to lay down and take a nap, I never dreamed that that nap would turn into a nine month siesta. Instead, I dreamed it might become a nine month nightmare.

That explains why I’ve decided to make up for my Rip Van Winkle absence—to all three of you—by attempting to write one quality (or one abysmal) post every single Friday.

Or, until WordPress finds out I’m back.

In which case, you’ll likely be spared irreversible damage to your retinas from read this (less than informative) blog.

So, here goes nothing—but most of you already knew that.

Now it’s an acknowledged fact—take my word for it because I haven’t done the research yet—that Marc Anthony, while he laid dying having fallen on his sword, yelled out to Cleopatra…

“Aflac!”

It’s true—if you don’t do any empirical research.

This deeply puzzled Cleopatra because she’d always assumed Anthony was covered by Blue Cross.

Then Cleopatra was bitten by a couple of asps.

That’s when she decided that she wanted to utter a few famous last words of her own— thereby upstaging the ever-theatrical Mark Anthony. And so she screamed—to no one in particular…

“Snakes, why’d it have to be snakes?”

Cleopatra’s last words were thought to have been lost to all of history. Until one day, the great film adventurer and archaeologist, Indiana Jones, excavated her last words from one of her tomb’s bathroom walls where they had sat—scribbled in permanent marker—for centuries.

The story goes that Jones discovered the wall while searching for a magical lamp—one modeled after a woman’s leg topped by a lampshade.

Suggesting the dig for the lamp took place somewhere near the ancient city of—Cleveland, Ohio.

Indy, later went on to adopt Cleopatra’s famous last words as something of a catch phrase for himself. This resulted in a rather nasty lawsuit—brought against him by Cleopatra’s estate.

The whole thing was eventually settled out of court, but, not before Jones paid an expensive licensing fee for the use of Cleo’s famous last words.

And what became of the dubious estate attorneys who brought this frivolous lawsuit? They’ve not be seen or heard from since …except on afternoon talk shows—like Dr. Phil.

It’s all a matter of public record, you can request a copy of the records if you’d like? But, why bother—since I’ve already provided them for you right here.

And for free!

Except for a one time payment of $39.95 (plus shipping and handling) for my new (complete, unabridged, soon to be written) book entitled…

“All the Famous Last Words Ever Spoken … As Far as You Know”

In it, you’ll find some of the greatest famous last words ever spoken. Take for example: Julius Caesar’s.

Bet you didn’t know Julius Caesar’s famous last words were phrased in the form of a question? Oh hush up and stop taking credit for it, Richard Edes…

Everyone already knows he was auditioning for the game show, “Jeopardy” at the time.

Also it appears he kept a journal (discovered in his palace by the FBI while searching for clues to his murder) where he’d apparently been experimenting for months in search of just the right words to say—just in case he were to meet with an unexpected death.

Yet, it seems he was only able to come up with that perplexing question of, “Et tu, Brute.” Which, when translated (by me) to read, “You too, Brutus?”

Naturally, this incriminated Brutus, who as it turns out, actually took a stab at answering Caesar’s perplexing question—with the help of a few friends.

Then, there was Ramses the II.

Now, it’s not well known but while he was gaining on Moses and the Israelites in that great chariot race to the Red Sea … he somehow lost the keys to his chariot and it stalled out.

Not having pit crews back in those days, Ramses the II (fearing once he’d located his keys he might have to give chase into the sea after Moses himself) turned to Marvin, his second in command, and said…

“Hey Marvin, be so kind as to give chase after Moses into the Red Sea for me, won’t you? Seems, I’ve lost the keys to my chariot back in the desert somewhere, and now I’m gonna have to return home to get my other set of keys.”

They were probably in his other pair of trousers.

Anyway, the point is, it wasn’t Ramses the II who uttered those famous last words, “Oh crap!” at the Red Sea when it closed up over his army, as initially thought, but poor old Marvin instead.

However, I’d say his last words seem quite apropos, wouldn’t you? Particularly, since it was Marvin’s last assignment.

In my book, I also take you way back to the beginning and the very first famous last words ever spoken. Remember Abel, of Cain and Abel fame? His famous last words were…

“Hey, I’ve been shot!”

Of course, ballistics being what they were then—and Cain being a believer in the Second Amendment as well as knowing his Miranda Rights—means that we’ll probably never know what kind of gun Cain used in the commission of the crime.

All the same, Abel’s famous last words were likely dead on.

Now I can’t speak to the many NOT SO FAMOUS last words uttered by other folks.

With the exception of a few last words from, Herbert the Expert Marksman of “Herbert the Expert Marksman’s Archery Shop” who said…

“Ouch, that hurts!”

This was back in 1548, when Herbert the Expert Marksman suddenly died in a tragic bow and arrow accident.

Or so, Jerry the Nave, (his assistant) claimed.

It was afterward that, Jerry the Nave, wound up inheriting Herbert’s wife “Errolyn the Beautiful” who went (reluctantly) to Jerry the Nave as part of Herbert’s inheritance.

Along with all of Herbert the Expert Marksman’s Fortune 500 shop.

Earl, Jerry the Nave’s brother, was the sitting judge at the hearing and he ruled Herbert’s death a suicide—by bow and arrow.

Uh … Herbert’s bow and arrow.

Can you believe that? Well I certainly hope so, as it will go a long way towards the sale of my (soon to be written) book.

By the way, all the details about Herbert’s demise were revealed to me in a letter written by Herbert himself, posthumously—after his death.

I don’t know how that’s possible?

All I know is the letter was addressed to me with specific instructions that I not open its contents—until after I was born.

Naturally, I agreed.

I can only surmise, that he met with Nostradmus, who then alerted him to my book, which was to be written in the future. Obviously, the poor guy wanted to be included in a #1 Best Seller!

How could I say no to him—I’d never met the guy!

 

 

 

Invasion Of The Body Attackers

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They’re here I tell ya, you must believe me! I mean, if you can’t trust a blogger then who can you trust?

Some doctor?

What? Entrust your safety to someone known for taking the hypocritical oath? That would mean putting all your trust in someone who dabbles in medical hypocrisy.

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Don’t you feel it much better to put all your trust in someone like me—an almost respected blogger on WordPress? Of course you do.

Sort of puts your mind at ease, doesn’t it? Especially when I’m about to tell you that…

WE’VE JUST BEEN INVADED BY ALIEN CREATURES FROM OUTER SPACE!

Yes, you read that correctly, we’ve been invaded!

Invaded by not just any alien creatures either, but alien creatures who fly, have lots of eyes, way too many legs, and who have antennae to help them communicate with their widely (literally) acknowledged extraterrestrial leader, Orson.

Consult—Mork & Mindy, circa 1978, for additional details.

Of course, science would have us all believe that they’re nothing more than a bunch of creepy crawly insects. Creepy crawly insects?

Who do all these crackpot scientists think they’re kidding? Didn’t we all saw Starship Troopers when it first came out?

Well, some of us did, but most of us saw TITANIC.

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All the same, you have to ask yourself, do alien insects—or Doogy Howser for that matter—look like they belong here with the rest of us on earth? Especially, Doogy. Doogy always wore a lab coat, not some long leather jacket. Bleck!

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THEY LOOK HIDIOUS!

Universal rejects if you ask me. Nothing but a bunch of alien species from some other planets sent here—JUST TO BUG US.

Arnie, from Elmer’s Tire Shop, told me all about it.

He said it’s all part of their Plan 9 from Outer Space thing.

You see, their Plan 8 thing went bad when they accidentally invaded the moon by mistake. Just after The Big Bang Theory exploded on the scene way back in 2007.

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Arnie (who when he’s not working on bicycle tires), is actually an obscure world famous alien bugologist who used to wear a lab coat similar to the one Doogy used to wear, but now wears street clothes like the rest of us.

Arnie works deep inside a top secret mountain fortress located somewhere in the state of Kansas—a state known for it’s high mountains.

No doubt, that’s because Arnie feels the wide open spaces of Kansas provide the ideal place for these creatures—THE ALIENS—to hide and reproduce in without being easily detected.

However, it should be noted that the Alien Bugologist of Guatemala don’t work in a secret mountain fortress. They work in a little hill fortress located in back of Cecil’s Burrito Shop. Maybe that’s because Guatemala’s mountains are mostly volcanic.

Nevertheless (with that little piece of twaddle now having been completely cleared up), Arnie says that all bugologist these days don’t actually wear lab coats much anymore.

This is because of the “Great Gary Larson’s Far Side Strike of 1987.”

See, Alien Bugologist were forced to give up wearing them after Gary Larson, creator of the comic strip “The Far Side” took to drawing CRACKPOT SCIENTIST in lab coats—instead of drawing the more nobler alien bugologist in lab coats.

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God only knows why, but I suspect, promises were made, endorsements were given, and money exchanged all under the table—possibly from a duped Scientific America employee.

No doubt, this was done on behalf of a rather dubious group of crackpot (mad) scientist who wanted to be seen as more important than they really are.

Eventually the great, Gary Larson, was forced to retire—if only to save the reputation of his great comic strip, The Far Side.

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Anyway, Arnie, tells me that since Tony Stark and “The Avengers” took over the job of protecting us and our planet, all the best scientific minds have given up on the idea of ever trying to stop this invasion—they eventually went underground to become Morloks.

Consult the film—The Time Machine, circa 1960, for more details.

I’m afraid that that leaves only you and I (and some pest control companies) to stop this invasion—which has become an all out infestation if you ask me.

Why just the other night, my wife and I had an alien encounter ourselves in downstairs bathroom. Oh, the bloodcurdling screams that came from that bathroom.

Then my wife joined me in screaming. Or rather, told me to stop screaming and do something.

That’s when I reached for a rolled up magazine and began to wage a life or death struggle with one of the eight legged creatures.

Finally, I had to retreat to a Motel 6 over in the next state, where (according to Tom Bodett) they leave the light on for ya.

I suppose that’s on the off chance that when you have a close encounter—of the eight-legged kind—you’ll at least have a safe house to go to at around $60 a night—give or take a buck or two.

Now I’ve always subscribed to the opinion that anything with more than two legs should probably be regarded as something otherworldly.

Which could explain why I’ve never been attacked from behind by a Chihuahua…or rabid Dogapus—a fictional but docile creature fond of man.

I read all about it in Geek Monthly. I’m told that one, Dr. Sheldon Cooper, discovered the creature. A likeness of the creature can occasionally be found on a T-Shirt.

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Anyway, eight legs is just six too many, folks. Which is why I strongly urge you to fear such aliens.

That, and they’re much faster than we are—not to mention…MUCH, MUCH SMALLER.

Let me just say that to be chased by a creature one inch in length—NEARLY 3 CENTIMETERS LONG—is to know shear terror.

At one point, I got so scared that I rushed out to buy a pack of “Depend” absorbant underwear—which I promptly went through all in one night.

But that’s only because my wife found out about the purchase (she hadn’t factored it into our budget yet) and promptly began to beat me with a frying pan.

Creepy crawly aliens and a wife whose budget is out of whack, are probably not to be trifled with.

Now, I suspect you probably think that I’m just making all this stuff up because I needed a post for my blog.

Well yeah, but just ask yourself these following questions before you discount anything I’ve told you as being nothing more than a bunch of rubbish.

Like, why is my blog not read by more readers? Could it be that maybe, just maybe, my massive amount of potential readers were abducted and consumed by aliens, and not (as WordPress suggested) that I write only worthless content of no value to anyone?

Gives one pause, doesn’t it?

Or let me ask you this one. How are alien insects able to control those flying saucers when they have so many legs getting in the way? “Look ma, NO HANDS!

Makes you think, doesn’t it?

Also, who are the contractors who designed all those unidentified flying objects up there?

Could it be…TESLA? And, where can I buy one in a midnight blue?

I mean, if the darn things are gonna lose value the instant we fly them off the lot, shouldn’t we be able to get one in our favourite colour?

At the very least… one at a Kelley (PROJECT) Blue Book price?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being Brave Enough To Comment And Respond

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With the possible exception of finding spare change under your sofa cushion, and a pair of socks in your sock drawer—without holes in the heels…

Nothing puts a smile on a bloggers face more than finding comments at the end of one of our posts. Unless you don’t own a computer or a blog—in which case you probably could care less.

But, as for the rest of us, comments at the end of any post are almost always guaranteed to bring a smile to our face.

Even when that comment comes from one, Angus (The Big Mouth Troll) MaGillicutty, who it seems regularly leaves me nothing but negative comments.

That’s right, Angus, I’ve got your number—until it becomes unlisted.

Yes, it’s nice to know that something as simple as a comment at the bottom of a post can actually bring a smile to your face.

In fact, the smiles your comments bring to my face are even bigger than the smile that crossed my face when my wife first announced that she was gonna continue to let me take out the trash—even after the kids move out.

Yay! Less to take out then.

Anyway, I’ve always felt comments were the real bread and butter of any blogs—especially mine. Apparently Mrs. Mildred Hogbottom of Terre Haute, Indiana agrees.

She writes: “Paul, thank god for the comment section of your blog. Otherwise, I would have left your blog years ago.”

You see folks, comments are what make doing a blog so much fun. For example: Try to imagine my blog without your comments? What blog you ask?

Exactly!

If it weren’t for all your comments, I’d have no blog. It’s sort of like saying it’s the clothes that make the man—unless you happen to be a woman. That’s what its like when you comment—they make my blog.

And that’s why I can’t wait to see who’s gonna try and ring my bell next. Uh, the bell up in the right hand corner of the screen—’cause that tells me someone was brave enough to comment.

And Viola! A real post is born.

No wonder visitors to my blog always say, “Paul, the best thing about your blog is your comments section.”

And that’s why I say with full confidence, that it’s the comments, yours, mine, and even non-bloggers that make yours and my blog the best blogs … in this price range.

 

 

 

 

Of Fools, Eggs, And Big Bunnies

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To folks just waking up expecting it to be Easter Sunday, and to the rest of you waking up, but who perhaps passed away some time ago—now that’s, GULP, a scary thought—boy are you all in for a surprise today.

It’s APRIL FOOLS DAY!

Gotcha! Unless, of course, you happen to be one of the zombies I just mentioned. In which case, the shoe may soon be on the other foot—my foot.

Cadavers, what merry pranksters they are. Seems there’s nothing they won’t do for a laugh.

Including, threatening to track down a ridiculous blogger for thoughtlessly playing an April Fools joke on them. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha…(nervous laughter)

Ahem, but, changing the subject completely.

I’m willing to bet you’re a lot like me (NO REALLY) no doubt feelling that the best April Fools jokes are those we never see coming.

Like me doing this, my first QUALITY post in over four months—or any month for that matter, and on Easter Sunday no less.

But not just any Easter Sunday,  but an April Fools Easter Sunday.

No fooling.

And what if I were to tell you that there’s this big white fluffy bunny that loves to go around hiding COLORFUL EGGS for kids to find on Easter Sunday—even for we big kids? Would you believe me?

April Fools!

No, really, there really is a big bunny who does that sort of thing!

And I’m not talking about your average garden variety cottontail either, but a real honest to goodness giant, mythical, furry floppy eared, Easter Bunny.

You know…A REAL POOKA.

WiffleGif

Now sometimes this bunny leaves a little surprise hiding inside the eggs. Usually it’s a little something called—real plastic grass.

But, most of the time you’ll find a piece of chocolate in there, or a small toy. And on some occasions, even a hard-boiled egg—which may have sat in the sun a little too long.

I was sick for a week after eating that one.

Ewww!

I know, I know, but if we’re going to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth—even if it means stretching the truth—then we musn’t hold back from telling a whole untruth, right?

Which leads me to this next bit.

Did you know that the Easter Bunny has been known to leave an egg stuffed with money? Its true.

At first, he’d start you out with just a few coins here and there. However, eventually he worked his way up to leaving me wadded up dollar bills.

Then, one year, I found an egg during an Easter egg hunt that had a couple million dollars stuffed inside!

I screamed “Hey ma, look what the Easter Bunny left me!”

Naturally, I was arrested on the spot and taken into custody for lying—by my mom! Shortly, thereafter, my mom (and the 2 million dollars) skipped town.

Years later, after the Easter Bunny her tracked down, she was arrested for embezzelment of holiday funds. She’s currently serving a life sentence in the state pen—one where they have you go in and feed and clean up after the rabbits.

Of course, not every Easter egg hunt has the same sort of happy ending.

For instance, this year I woke up to a jewel encrusted Faberge egg—the cost of which, may set the Easter Bunny back for years. But, if he thinks I’m going to return it…

Giphy

APRIL FOOLS!

Happy Easter everyone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hey, It’s Snowing Here!

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Being a native Californian (oh yeah… we all wear a headdress out here) I’ve become accustomed to experiencing sunshine and temperatures in the warm seventies.

So you can imagine my surprise (well you’ll have to since you’re not me) when this morning I opened up my blog and was greeted by of all things… FALLING SNOW.

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That’s right, real artificial automated falling snow all over my blog!

At first, I tried scraping the white stuff off the monitor with a credit card—because I don’t have a squeegee lying near my computer like many of my readers who live back east.

But as you can see, that was to no avail as the snow continues to fall unabated here.

I even thought we might be having one of those Nor’easters like the New England area sometimes gets—except this might be more like a Nor’wester—until I realized that’s not quite what I’m experiencing either.

So I yelled to my wife that it was snowing all over my blog site and she responded with, “Did you adjust the contrast?”

Forums – Mtbr.com

After thinking about that response (for all of about two hours) I replied, “Honey, I said it was snowing… NOT THAT MY MONITOR WAS SNOWY!”

It was then I was smacked upside my head with an artificial automated snowball, or a wadded up sock.

It felt like it may have been filled with lots of coin—even though I knew Icouldn’t be that lucky.

After the concussion wore off, I began to explore how this phenominon could possibly happen.

My initial theory was that WordPress must have been experimenting with mixing high-pressure water and compressed air while operating in near freezing temperatures.

If for no other reason than to prove that that theory was correct.

When I postulated that idea to my wife she suggested that…

“Maybe WordPress doesn’t have a roof and that’s why it’s snowing all over your blog.”

I had to admit her idea had merit—due to its simplicity—but I dismissed hers as being architectually flawed. After all, who—other than a sports  franchise—puts up a building without a ceiling for their employees to work in?

Netanimations.net

Then I thought about you, my readers, who are always SECOND in my thoughts and who were stuck having to read this post between all the falling fake snowflakes.

I figure it’s difficult enough reading a post written in broken Californian—an extinct all but ancient language never taught in California schools—without having to read between artificial white dots masqurading as snow as well.

Suddenly, I had an ephiphany and yelled—HEY HONEY… MAYBE ITS MY DANDRUFF!

123RF Stock Photos

That’s when it hit me…

Another wadded up sock (ouch), giving me a complete PAIR.

And one awful headache.

The Great Turkey Shoot Of 1620

Bethel Church

Time for a little history lesson and this being a holiday weekend lets talk turkey.

The year was 1620. The American Revolution was still many years away, but a little known piece of American history was about to unfold.

America was young then and the Thanksgiving holiday had yet to be recognized. However, such was not the case for the Native American Turkey. Thanks to a group of early American paparazzi, they WERE recognized.

The reason for their recognition may have had a little something to do with bullseyes being pinned to their backs by some early American hoodlums called… The Pilgrims.

Nevertheless, we must remember that Pin the Tale on the Donkey was nearly a century away from being legalized in America… and donkeys were in short supply. So, naturally, what other prank could a young misguided Pilgrim play on someone—or on some turkey?

It also should be noted that the The Pilgrim Gang (as they later came to be called) carried boom boom sticks. Native Americans called them Blunderbusses, but they had a better command of the new American-English language—having been here longer.

Now these young Pilgrim hoodlums became so good with there boom boom sticks that they were actually able to hit the broad side of a barn—from only two-feet away.

And without pulling the triggers!

Seeing as they were now wearing bullseyes this became something of a grave concern for the turkeys.

Above The Law

So one day, as the turkeys were gathering on Lexington Green, black coated Pilgrims took aim and fired their boom boom sticks into the crowd of turkeys.

Apparently, the men in black figured out what the triggers were for—and then quickly adopted The Second Amendment.

When all was said and done, half a dozen turkeys had fallen—and couldn’t get up.

A warning went out far and wide “The black coats are coming, the black coats are coming!” because turkeys are known for repeating themselves. You know like … gobble, gobble.

That’s when the turkeys turned to a young turkey—one Tom by name—to lead them in a revolt.

The turkeys then followed Tom the Turkey up a hill where he began to gobble, gobble—in turkey of course…

“I regret that I have but one life to give!”

Well, the next thing you know those trigger happy black coats fired on Tom the Turkey, and there he gave that one life, because turkeys (unlike cats) only have but one life to give.

Unfortunately, in the process of gobble gobbling… he also gave away the position of all the other turkeys!

Today, we still remember The Great Turkey shoot of 1620 and the turkeys who gave their lives—albeit… involuntary.

This is why we share our tables with their offspring when we gather to eat on the last Thursday of every November.

Oh… and we celebrate by watching football too. But … ALWAYS IN THEIR MEMORY! And it beats the hell out of eating meatloaf on Thanksgiving.

So, eat up, and Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

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