The New Original Holiday Tale And Its—ALMOST Thrilling Final

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Welcome to Part Two of the new original holiday classic that everyone will be talking about… down at the hobo encampment near the railroad tracks.

“Baxter the Snowman and that Fateful Dance with those Darn Irresponsible Sugarplum Fairies.”

It’s written by a new, but well established, up and coming, utterly BRILLIANT author—who looks remarkably like… well… ME.

Part One of the story introduced us to, Baxter, a partially melted snowman who is living (if you can call it that) on the outskirts of the Egyptian Desert.

One Christmas Eve he encounters three Sugarplum Fairies who are anything but sugar and spice and everything nice.

They ask Baxter to help them in funding their quest to find “The Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik” and in return, they promised him a portion of the fabled snowball to replace his current languidly melting lower torso.

All Roads Lead To The Kitchen

As you may recall, the Sacred Snowball is supposedly made of Folgers Crystals, “They’re magically delicious and melt in your coffee… BUT NOT IN YOUR SAND.”

We pick up our story with the ANIMATED Tim Burton now narrating—without having to croon any songs… because he can’t sing a lick.

Take it away, Tim!

Huh? Oh, yeah, right. Let me see… where were we now? Oh yes, remember.

So without further adieu I present to you, one Dickens of a Christmas Story—Uh.. Part Two.

Baxter (now a slowly liquefying snowman), is telling three odious Sugarplum Fairies that he barely remembers the fable of the sacred snowball, but that his mother sometimes would read about it to him as he was drifting off to sleep—back when he was but a small snowflake in his mothers eye.

Baxter, however, is unaware that the mischievous trio of fairies that he’s encountered were actually fired by Local Fairies Union 79 for dancing poorly without a license.

And, they’ve been using the fable of the “Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik” as part of a nefarious ponzi scheme they hatched to defraud people (and snowmen) out of all their worldly goods.

Except items… Made in China.

In fact, the local nomad news recently reported that a Mongolian camel dealer by the name of, Herman T. Zidlemeyer, had actually ran into the three crafty old fairies while he was crossing the desert on a horse with no name.

He said the three claimed an uber driver left them stranded out there with only a snowballs chance in hell of escaping the desert heat.

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As luck would have it, they happened to have a snowball—The Famed Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik! They swapped the great snowball with Zidlemeyer for his horse—who shall still remain nameless.

Zidlemeyer barely crawled back home to his wife who, recognizing the fabled snowball’s value—that of being worthless except when being used as a MacGuffin in a Christmas fable—told her husband to put it out on the porch of their yurt—or tent.

There, overnight, it melted and eventually became a great puddle.

Today the puddle is better known as “The Oasis of Balderdash.” Of course, it could have been much worse for Zedlemeyer… he might have lost his yurt in the deal!

Baxter, also suffered from brain freezes (a condition quite common to snowmen), and he couldn’t remember anything about the nomad news report concerning the Zedlemeyers.

So, wanting to help the LITTLE WINGED HARPIES (I mean, fairies), Baxter slipped over to an ATM at the “First Dust and Loan of Jeruselum” and fortunately, not having to deal with a frozen account, was able to withdraw every single penny (and married ones too) from his savings—leaving only nickles, dimes, and quarters to his name…

And fifty thousand shares of Frigidaire stock, which at the time, were going for $900.00 a share.

The three wicked little fairies were unable to contain their joy at having pulled off a fast one on a (poor but living comfortably) handicapped snowman. So much so, that they made a fateful mistake. They began break-dancing, something no licensed Sugarplum Fairy would ever be caught dead doing.

Alive, perhaps? But dead? No.

However, Baxter, not known for his dancing skills (what snowman is, after all, they don’t have legs unless maybe they’re named Frosty), tried to join in and dance with the larcenous trio of fairies. That’s when Santa Claus came flying in—DOING 95 IN A 35 MILE PER HOUR ZONE!

Naturally, the cops, who were hot on his tail, swooped right in and arrested the whole lot of em—Baxter, the fairies (who were trying to spin away from justice), and old lead foot—Santa Claus.

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Baxter was later released when it became clear he couldn’t stand the heat. Even got his corncob pipe—BECAUSE SANTA DELIVERS.

Santa? Oh he got off for good behavior. Well what did you expect from a group of elves trying to save their job—TO CLAIM THAT THEY SAW HIS NAME ON THE NAUGHTY LIST?

And as for the three Sugarplum Fairies, well they weren’t so lucky.

Seems a young pregnant woman was seen riding on a donkey with her husband walking along side. They were looking for a hotel for the night (or so they claimed) but managed to bed down for the night in a manger.

The unscrupulous Sugarplum Fairies actually tried to pin the tale on the donkey—dummies.

Thank goodness the cops weren’t buying their FAIRY TALE. But you will… won’t you?

 

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A New Original Holiday Tale

Christmas Done Bright

The most wonderful time of the year is nearly upon us again. That time of year when life-affirming stories celebrate the spirit of the holidays, warm our hearts, and fill us with good cheer—like that spiked pumpkin spice latte I had the other night—and then are either read or watched for the umpteenth time.

Stories like… A Christmas Carol (all 218 versions!), Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, and that all-time classic…

“Baxter… the Snowman and that Fateful Dance With Those Darn Irresponsible Sugarplum Fairies.”

Now I know what you’re probably going to say. You’re going to say “Oh yeah, yeah I remember… BAXTER THE SNOWMAN AND THAT FATEFUL DANCE WITH THOSE DARN IRRESPONSIBLE SUGARPLUM FAIRIES?”

“Paul, what in the world was in that pumpkin spiced latte?”

Well, I don’t rightly know, but I wanna thank you for referencing the story in bold-type lettering—though it really wasn’t necessary.

I mean, any day now there’s bound to be a audio book version of this blog post at Barnes & Noble.

And just in time for the holidays too. They might even hire Maggie Simpson of “The Simpsons” to read it—MAKING IT A REAL STOCKING-STUFFER!—and an absolute must for your whole (blended) family.

However, none of that is important now—that is, until the cash starts rolling in—but what is important is that this story never has been a novel, movie adaptation, nor holiday television special—filled with plenty of (before November) holiday commercials—and yet, it’s still destined to become an instant yuletide classic.

Our story begins on Christmas Eve around 5 BC just outside a little town on the edge of the Egyptian Desert—a tad east of Toledo, Ohio.

NASA Space Image

There, we find a partial snowman by the name of Baxter, melting in a small pile of snow. He’s staring up into the night sky in hopse that the big red elf known as Santa Claus, will be bringing him a corncob pipe—its been on back order from L.L. Bean for quite some time.

Suddenly, this streaking bright object appears to race across the Eastern sky.

Why it’s Santa Claus!

And what’s this? Why he’s being followed by the Nomadic Air Patrol—uh, I think maybe we should leave it there for now. No point in making the story worse by sticking around to see Santa get a speeding ticket.

Now this is where three Sugarplum Fairies appear out of nowhere—more likely from somewhere.

They glide up to Baxter, and begin telling him that they are on a quest for the “Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik.”

They ask Baxter to help them in securing funding for an expedition to search for the great snowball, and upon finding it they will happily let him have some of it for the bottom have of his melting torso.

They tell him that the great snowball is magically made from Folgers Crystals and that the dark crystals only melt when sprinkled into coffee. They say that since he’s a snowman and that snowmen don’t drink or swim in coffee… he would probably be set for life!

That’s a good story.

But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow—or possibly three or four more days—for the ALMOST thrilling final.

That’s because, being a complete dunderhead, I accidentally pressed publish before finishing the story and now I need time to write part two of the tale.

Of course, as many of you know, its National Novel Writing Month, and you are given until the end of November to finish a 50,000 word novel.

And I’ve only written, lets see, one, two, three, four… five… five hundred or so words! THAT’S IT, JUST FIVE HUNDRED OR SO WORDS?

Maybe I’d better stick to writing a two-part post this time and save the writing of that 50,000 word novel for November of next year.

 

Inkyboy

 

BEWARE: Of Having Adoring Eyes

Laughing GIF

Are you the proud owner of a wife, husband, or significant other? Well I am—although, my significant other just reminded me that I don’t own her.

“Well you don’t! No one owns anybody.”

I know that! Can I finish writing this post now, dear?

‘I don’t know… can you?”

Well, if you wouldn’t interrupt me.

“Go ahead, write, don’t let me stop you.”

Thank you. I was just trying to say that I adore my significant other—that would be you, dear. Just as I am sure my readers adore their own (ON LOAN) significant others. And I wanted to write to confess that on occasions I get caught ogiling you.

“Like the other night at the party, when my back was turned and you were undressing me with your eyes?”

OKAY, OKAY, SO I’M GUILTY! WHAT’S WRONG WITH THAT? NOW, CAN I FINISH MY POST?

“You’re typing aren’t you?”

Yes. AFTER ALL, IT IS MY BLOG NOT YOURS. Don’t you hate it when your wife wants to edit your posts? Anyway, so where was I? Oh, yeah, yeah the ogiling part. So there I was, staring at her legs, when all of a sudden, she turns around and…

“And you got caught looking like a dear between the headlights!”

CAN I PLEASE FINISH?

“Go ahead, far be it from me to interrupt you.”

So then she say’s to me “What… what is it? Do I have a tear in my stockings?”

And I responded with something like “Uh… uh… I don’t know… I guess I just can’t stop staring at you. YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL!”

“Well stop staring at me!” she said, but in a LOUD whisper “You’re making me feel like a piece of meat.”

BOING!

The SuperHeroHype

Suddenly, there I was, feeling as if I’d just been reduced into this blithering idiot. Naturally, I started babbling in tongues.

“Incoherently, I might add.”

AHEM.. But if you remember, dear,  I did say that I didn’t actually SEE you as a piece of meat… but one with brains too!

“That’s it, that’s it, that’s what you said!”

What? What did I say?

“That I had brains too!”

Well you do, don’t you?

“Yeah, but it’s how you said it!”

Anyway, in a millisecond she goes from this demure beauty into this incredulous looking beauty, cocking her head to one side, dawning a quizzical look, mouth agape, and responding with…

“Huh?”

That’s when this six foot hole magically opened up underneath me (and I can’t be sure yet, but I think I was SHOVED into it too), AND WITHOUT LILLIES TO COMPLETE MY ENSEMBLE!

“Well you deserved it.”

I DID NOT!

“YOU DID TOO. Looking at me from behind… with goo-goo eyes no less.”

Well, I don’t think I was deserving of being ditched, as it were—I mean what man does? All I was trying to do was be your would be Lothario, when suddenly, I was turned into this corpse!

“MEN… you’re all alike. Filthy lustful beasts.”

Not true. When we first met… I WAS ATTRACTED TO YOUR MIND!”

“Was it walking around in stockings and a pair of heels too?”

OKAY, OKAY! Gee, you act like we men are transparent or something. Oh I admit I was initially attracted to your “PHYSICAL BEAUTY” but I also fell in love with the way you think too—except for maybe right now. You have to admit, though, that unlike most young male troglodytes of today, I’ve also evolved into…

“AN OLDER MALE TROGLODYTE?”

No… I was going to say, HUSBAND!

“I know.”

Well then… can I finish my thought?

“Sure, go ahead.”

I was just wanting to say that I’ve never lost my fascination with your MIND, or your effeminate nature… and I LOVE YOU! There… whad’ya think now of my post?

“STOP STARING AT ME FROM BEHIND!”

Oh for goodness sakes, I MEAN I’M TRYING!

“Yes, you certainly are.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

You Are Now Reading The Most Renowned Blog In The World

Laughing Gif

One of the benefits of occasionally vanishing from the WordPress blogroll is that I am often able to return stealthy and totally unnoticed. Probably because nobody knew where the hell I went in the first place. Not that any of you would miss anything, mind you. however.

However, recently upon my latest return I was gobsmacked to find that during my absense my blog “In My Cluttered Attic” was named “Most Popular Blog In The World” and by none other than “In My Cluttered Attic”!

Not bad for a blog whose last post was back on July 31st.

Now having one’s blog revered and accepted in over 532 lands is quite gratifying—if only it were true. However, although, I do have a blog revered in more than 193 or so countries—which sounds even less awesome—UNFORTUNATELY, IT TOO IS A LIE.

That’s why I’m just going stick to my initial claim of being revered and accepted in 532 lands, instead of 531, because Kim Jong Un of North Korea can’t see eye-to-eye with me on account of his being too short.

Besides, his puny blog is the pits anyway. Just ask anyone who’s read it? If you can find anyone who’s read it.

Neverheless, it’s truly amazing the number of folks—more than 7 billion strong now not counting my Uncle Ethel (not his real name… it’s really Mildred)—who wake up every day and race to their computers to bring up “In My Cluttered Attic” just so they can read what’s going on up in my head.

And some days they might even catch me in my RIGHT mind!

Naturally, this kind of (deceitful) fame might go straight to most people’s heads, but not me. No, in my case this kind of artificial immortality is customarily met at the entrance to my mind with an untidy mess—masquerading as unfiltered clutter between the ears.

Such is the medley of chaos that fills my cranium on a regular basis, thus preventing additional narcissism (like the above-mentioned bogus honor) from ever having a chance to enter my head.

That’s why I wrote this post. I mean, who better to sing my bodacious blog’s praises?

Of course, not being one to blow my own trumpet—seeing as I can’t play a single note on a trumpet that is, but just let me go near a kazoo AND YOU MIGHT LOSE YOUR HEARING—I decided to spend the last three months searching the globe for people who might sing the praises of my blog for me.

However, how was I to know no one in this world could carry a tune?

And because of an irrational fear of flying (without the use of an airplane), and ticket prices being what they are—plus my not being under contract by Marvel to portray any kind of flying superhero—I wasalso  unable to make an around world trip.

That, and my wife ordered me not to set foot out of the house—with any of our credit cards.

So, armed with nothing but a wallet full of small bits of worthless paper, except for my official “Junior Birdman’s Astronaut Card” (sent to me from Battle Creek, Michigan back when I was five) I felt like I’d been permanently grounded.

Then something miraculous happened.

A flood of endorsements started arriving on my doorstep—and the mailman swore they better be emails from now on—or else this post about the worlds most popular blog “In My Cluttered Attic” might have gone kaput.

Why just look at some of the glowing testimonials that I’ve (ahem) received!

“Never have I read a greater pile of twaddle than what I regularly find posted in ‘In My Cluttered Attic’ and I’ve been dead for nearly Two-Hundred and Fifty years! Signed: Ben Franklin

Twaddle, that’s a good thing, right?

Then there’s this little gem.

PinsDaddy

“Children of the night, take a bite out of ‘In My Cluttered Attic’ and you’ll see the light.” Your Friend: Count Dracula

How bout that… a real live count!

Of course, ordinary folks have written to me too.

“Hi, Mr. Attic, its John Smith. Read you all the time. Anyway, I was just wondering if you’ve found time yet to write that request for an extension we talked about?

You know the one, it was in regards to that discussion we had concerning your failure to pay any taxes.” Yours: John Smith, IRS

Whoops, how in the world did that get in there? Excuse me will you? I think maybe I need to go focus on a little “Dear John” post.

 

 

 

 

 

Of Posts, Followers, WordPress, And Paper Shredders

 

Yes, it has been a while since I last wrote about something, hasn’t it? So how’s this thing work again? Oh yeah, I remember now.

I write this small (or more likely) tall tale, one which no one else is able to identify with, whereby, I keep changing the direction of the story—something I use as a substitute for a plot twist whenever I work without a plot—which apparently, is all the time.

Then I try to infuse my narration with all kinds of humor—none of which ever passes for humor, but no one ever seems to care about that since after I finish spinning my yarn, it rarely manages to come together anyway.

But hey… I at least wrote another post!

Of course, that’s all that matters—unless you’re a WordPress employee and in charge of making sure none of my post ever make it to the “Discover” page—in which case you’ll be crawling out a window and onto a ledge where you’ll shortly be taking a leap.

“Automattic” (that’s the San Francisco office of WordPress), recently closed their doors. Seems their employees have been working from home so much lately that they don’t need an office anymore.

So unless they live in multi-story apartments, you’ll not likely see any of my posts on the WordPress “Discover” page anytime soon.

Nevertheless, I have had a few comments of late (too few to mention), saying just how much I am missed by my followers and that they hope I will write again soon. At the moment, I am conducting a thorough investigation to see if any of these wonderful folks are on my payroll, which should result in there getting a raise—just as soon as I establish a payroll.

However, if they don’t happen to be on my (non-existant) payroll—and seeing how much of what I write about here (well all of what I write about here) barely passes for little more than a ridiculous take on nothing of consequence—I can only assume these folks have an empty paper shredder in need of something to consume.

Therefore, I think perhaps my followers really do miss me.

Either that, or they have very hungry shredders and I may be the new provider of meals for their shredders come feeding time.

Waiting To Die

Consider this: You’re facing death (total annihilation), its reflection is staring you in the face. In other words; you are about to enter into the after-life.

Meaning? You’re dead, no life.

So you frantically begin to look for a solution to your little problem when all of a sudden, this Jack Kevorkian type comes up to you holding the solution right in the palm of his hand.

Assisted suicide.

At first, you’re terrified of the idea, but that’ll only last until you go into a full blown panic! Now you start to scurry about looking for a possible way out. You look left, you look right, you look up, you look down, you look… totally miserable.

BUT YOU’RE A FLY ON MY WINDOW, so that comes natural.

That’s when fate steps up to lend you a hand and in this case its my hand, and its holding a rolled up magazine. That’s right, I’m your Doctor Kevorkian. I’m your doctor death—AND I’M PACKING.

Face it Mr Fly, you entered my home illegally.

Of course, your first instinct is to buzz around a lot and I can appreciate that—although, it’s totally irrational—but you’re a fly its what you do.

If it were me, I wouldn’t be a fly, and I certainly wouldn’t wanna be in your shoes right now. But your kind don’t wear shoes—so no worries there.

However, I still wouldn’t wanna find myself trapped against that glass door—BUZZING ALL ABOUT. That looks totally stupid—even more so if I were you.

But I’m not you, you’re Mr. Fly (or is it Mrs. Fly?) and you’re trapped against the glass door, my glass door, and now you are DOOMED!

Come to think of it, I’ve never really stopped to find out your exact sex. But, that’s likely because I’ve never had the time to dissect any of you guys afterwards.

You know why? BECAUSE YOU ALL SEEM TO SHOW UP AT DINNER TIME.

Well they’ll be no autopsy for you today either (lucky you), because I hate cold dinners, and it would probably ruin my appetite anyway.

Besides, I don’t have any microscopic Pathology tools on hand—they’re currently on back order from Amazon.

But just you wait (well, not you per se), because when those tools of torture finally do arrive I’ll have a whole new career in front of me… that of… INSECT CORONER.

Second class, of course, after all I’m still a beginner.

It’s a course I’m taking from a big (FOR PROFIT) online college. Their school phamplet says it’s a growing field—probably because there’s plenty of you. So when I get finished with my (12 year) degree, I suspect I’ll be making a killing.

Which should help me pay off about a sixteenth of my new found student loan debt… before I die.

But I don’t have to explain any of this to you do I? No, because YOU, Mr or Mrs fly, you are going to be long gone by then b e c a u s e…  I’m… a b o u t… to… s m a s h… the living daylights out of…

NOOOO… HONEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

“What?”

WHY’D YOU OPEN THE SLIDING GLASS DOOR? YOU LET THE STUPID FLY OUT! I HAD HIM RIGHT IN MY SIGHTS TOO!

“Well maybe I opened it because I was trying to figure out why my idiot husband was conducting a monologue with me through a sliding glass door? How was I suppose to know you were attempting to talk a fly to death.”

OH.

“Skills stupid, skills! Now go get a fly swatter—AND FINISH THE JOB!”

Pinterest

YES DEAR.

 

 

 

How I Beat Bobby Fischer At His Own Game… And Other Confessions Of Note

Popkey.co

Oh, oh have I got big confessions for you guys!

Now a lot of these humongous (but slightly exaggerated) confessions of mine are actually genuine admissions of truth—otherwise I’d have to be a downright liar.

That means, you can count on these revelations to be absolutely plausible—if not destined to soon be found on the cover of a grocery store tabloid.

For example: bet you didn’t know that chess-master Bobby Fischer’s REAL GAME was actually checkers?

I ran into Bobby (total strangers, and even friends, were allowed to call him by his first name) sitting at this table in a little shop in Raykjvak.

He was dressed in multiple layers of yak fur and an earmuff cap challenging all comers to a game of checkers.

I accepted his challenge and proceeded to checkmate his kings 42 consecutive times!

That’s when Bobby asked me if I’d rather play chess, instead?

I replied, “Why would I wanna do that when I just proved I can checkmate your kings in checkers?”

I heard later Bobby had started challenging horses to tiddlywinks. Probably felt that would be a more successful venture.

Apparently it wasn’t.

ChessBase

Then there was the time I was asked by Richard Nixon if I wouldn’t be interested in becoming his running mate?

He was right… I wasn’t interested.

Hey… I discovered the true definition of… covfefe!

WHO KNEW?

Remember the most interesting man in the world? He found me equally interesting as well—that revelation came to him during a chat we had over several cases of Dos Equis.

I confess that I was once the lead singer for the Spice Girls, but then I had this unexpected bout with puberty and had to give up singing… except for when I’m in the shower—and my wife is still trying to get me to give that up!

Oh… here’s something I bet you didn’t know… I’M BATMAN, but I can’t show you the Bat Cave. It’s in a secret location—I accidentally broke my GPS.

I’m also close friends with a guy in the witness protection program. His name is John Smith, I know this because it says that on his drivers license. It has his picture on it and everything, so its just gotta be true!

Did you know that I was once invited to The White House for dinner? It was the house on the corner just down the street. Was, because after that dinner the occupants vanished—house and all! Real paranormal stuff!

Bet you don’t know Marvin like I know Marvin? In fact, I don’t think Marvin knows that I know Marvin like I do. That’s what identity theft can do for you. I really gotta get around to returning Marvin’s mailbox key to him someday.

Okay, now here’s a real big confession. My wife, she actually thinks she’s the boss around here—ha, ha, ha, ha—but I don’t have the heart (or the courage) to tell her that it’s really me.

Uh, maybe we better keep that little confession just between us. You never know WHO might be reading this stuff.

Yes, Tom Hanks Is My Brother

I

Pinterest

I know, kind of blows your mind doesn’t it? But yes, Tom Hanks is my brother. Yeah… THAT Tom Hanks!

THUD!

Wow, you hit that floor like a tub of Bubba Gump Shrimp. You alright? I’d give you more smelling salts but after seeing what the ammonia and spirit of hartshorn did to your nose-hairs, I’d say your nose has had enough.

I just figured you guys already knew.

Some of my regular readers have known for some time now that Tommy and I are related—relatives are allowed to call him, Tommy—BECAUSE HE HATES BEING CALLED, TOMMY. Hee, hee, hee. Sorry, Tom.

Anyway, it seems that after stumbling across this relative obscure fact, an unscrupulous semi-regular reader of my blog decided that he, or she, had better go broadcast it to a few more people. And then they went and told a few more people, and so on, and so on until…

Well… Tommy called me and asked if I might not address the issue. I guess a little backstory is called for here, huh?

You see, Tom and I grew up in and around the San Francisco Bay Area, a place I still call home. Tom, on the other hand, has since moved to South America—choosing to live in some remote place called… Los Angeles.

Initially, we were raised in Concord, California. It’s still located in the East Bay—despite all the earthquakes.

What a pair we were… a pair of eyes, a pair of ears, a pair of arms, legs, and feet. But, after all these years, we’re still a pair. A pair of glasses, a pair of gloves, a pair of pants and shoes, but not one pair of socks between us.

Seems getting a complete pair of socks out of a washer is beyond us—and perhaps a few other people.

WikipediaWhat with having two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs, and two feet… you might say we were a pair. In fact, Tommy and I still have a pair of everything to go with our glasses, pants, shoes, and gloves—but for some reason, we still can’t retrieve a complete pair of socks out of a washer.

Oh, I probably should mention here that although we weren’t the most popular kids in school, we were still pretty good boys—just ask the police.

Not being Tom’s immediate brother or even half-brother, but actually, his quarter brother (don’t ask, it’s an impossible math equation) nobody ever seemed to make the connection that we were somehow related—but I think that’s because my nose is more attractive than his.

Over the years, being his older (quarter) brother, I’ve managed to keep a very close eye on Tommy—the binoculars have helped.

After graduation, I decided on stable employment and pursued my childhood dream of becoming a blogger. But, for some odd reason, none of my counselors had a clue what the hell that was—they thought I was nuts!

Tommy, on the other hand, became infatuated with this mermaid and went out and bought a fixer upper. Then a series of odd jobs soon followed.

He joined the police department and became a detective’s sidekick. Became a drunken manager of an all woman’s baseball team. And then took a job as an adolescent man-child. Uh, Tommy, how does a person get a job like that? Just asking?

The Odyssey Online

Then NASA hired him as an astronaut (with very little experience) and tried to send him to the moon—which ended predictably by the way. However, an opportunity to become a puppet cowboy sheriff has provided him some regular part-time work, but that’s about it.

Obviously, these jobs have taken a toll on Tom, because he ultimately went to Seattle to get some rest. Soon afterward, he went to the air terminal to catch a flight back home, but the plane crashed into the ocean and he was stranded on an island for a few years, where he formed this unhealthy attachment with a volleyball named, Wilson—AND THEY CALLED ME NUTS?

Then, when they finally let him out of the hospital… he thought he was Walt Disney!

The whole experience left him wanting to learn how to fly again, but that resulted in his crash landing on the Hudson River!

The poor man just can’t seem to hold a job, and yet I can’t help but feel that my quarter brother somehow is in denial and looks up to me as a celebrity. Probably because of my status as a pseudo emeritus blogger par excellence, who happens to work for free at WordPress.

So folks, as a favor to me, and in spite of Tommy’s claim that he’s financially stable, won’t you please embrace him as I do, as my loyal and envious quarter brother? Apparently, it would mean a great deal to him.

I have to go now. My two assistants have arrived to help me slip on my new sleeveless jacket.

“Hi fellas, can we go outside and play today? These four padded walls feel like they’re just closing in on me? Gee, those are a couple of nice looking white jackets you fellas have on.”

My Interview With The New York Times

Shildan

Ever since the news got out about an interview I recently did with the New York Times, many of you (one and a half people) repeatedly (never) asked if I might (not) share that interview with all of you. Being as I’ve been absent a lot of late, I completely understand.

However, I feared your (non-existent) request for me to post the interview was likely due to some kind of brain damage you may have suffered as a result of a blog reading incident—ironically a condition which afflicts many of my readers.

So, that’s why I’ve decided to post the interview, anyway.

Incidentally, I recently discovered that a significant number of you (a number that rhymes with the word hero) also wanted to know more about me. So all is forgiven (in advance) if you thought the interview would be an in-depth one—as I am way too shallow for that.

In any case, let me just say (and I’m probably going to lie here), the thought of posting this interview just to suck in more readers to pad my stats never once (but multiple times) crossed my mind. In fact, I only thought about it every waking minute of every single day.

I should also mention that I never once broke out in a cold sweat over the idea of posting the interview—unless you count the two or three dozen times I hyperventilated over WordPress possibly not posting the interview in their Discover section—I suppose they feel that section is reserved for their more sophisticated readers.

But as you know, a large number of their readers could actually care less about being found in the WordPress Discover section—I only wished that I was one of them, but let’s not get into a discussion about a particular kind of bitter fruit right now.

Likewise, not being one of those people who would ever stoop to using sensational headlines to draw attention to my blog (as far as you know), except for on those rare occasions (which is every chance I get), I’ve decided to honor your request (begging really) to post only a fragment of the interview.

I say a fragment because posting the whole interview would take up way too much space—and possibly would become required reading for future high school students.

Since my blog already alienates lovers of good writing anyway—and to spare future generations such an agony in school—that’s another reason why I decided to post only a small portion of my interview, thus sending readers racing to the Times to read the whole thing in its entirety.

Yeah, you’re welcome New York Times.

And seeing as I’ve been using the WordPress platform for years now—apparently without their knowledge—this should help the folks at WordPress as well… not to mention myself. Okay, so I mentioned myself.

SURPRISE WordPress—and you’re welcome too!

Now, no doubt, you’ve heard the New York Times famous slogan… “All the News That’s Fit to Print” and are probably wondering why such a reputable organization (except in the eyes of one, Donald Trump) would ever consider conducting an interview with someone who has never posted anything on his blog that was ever fit to print?

I can’t honestly answer that… unless I tell you the truth—so what can I say but that I must make for some great copy!

And for those of you who felt I was only an infamous infrequent blogger of nonsense, you’re absolutely right and without further ado, allow me to present the abbreviated version of my New York Times interview.

Me: I can’t tell you what a delight it is to be featured in your newspaper.

Reporter: Why not?

Me: What? Oh, I get it. Very funny.

Reporter: Thank you.

Me: But I have to ask you, though, how did you folks ever select me for an interview?

Reporter: Well our editor has been wanting to do a feature on blogging for our SundayStyles section for some time now, and seeing that you regard your blog as being a humor blog, he thought it would be fun to use you.

Me: Wow! I mean what did he do, toss a list of blog titles into a hat and reach in and pick out mine?

Reporter: How did you know?

Me: Huh?

Reporter: Just kidding.

Me: Oh thank goodness. For a minute there I thought you were serious.

Reporter: (Laughter) Nah, of course not. We’d never do anything like that.

Me: Yeah, I know what you mean. Who pulls stuff out of a hat anymore, right?

Reporter: No, I meant that we at the Times would never do a SundayStyles feature with a blogger on blogging, especially with one where we pulled his name out of a hat.

Me: You mean…

Reporter: Yeah. You’ve been had fella, and so have the rest of you… APRIL FOOLS!

A Post Found Only… In The Twilight Zone

Popkey

You unlock this door with the key to exaggeration. You’re about to embark on a wondrous journey—if you’re still smoking that stuff—of neither sight nor sound, and whose boundaries are that of imagination—albeit one gone stagnant. That’s the signpost up ahead, your next stop… The Twilight Zone.

Tap, tap, tap… tap, tap, tap. Click, click, click… Thump!

Meet Rufus T. Dingledosh a fictional blogger. What you’re reading above is the sound of his fingers feverishly striking keys on a keyboard in the creation of his next brilliant post.

Rufus T. Dingledosh, extraordinary blogger and fictional character who has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of this post, because this blog doesn’t belong to him.

Blogging Sensei

Instead, this blog post belongs to a man who has neglected to post very little on his blog of late that he might meet the demands of another humorous creative writing job—one which paid him.

I know I couldn’t believe it either.

Thus, he was off all last week. Last week? Let’s make that, THE LAST MONTH AND A HALF—just so he could make some money.

Makes you wonder what in the world was going through this guy’s head—not to mention into his bank account, doesn’t it? Well not to worry, I’ll leave that to your imaginations.

Anyway, when he finished that assignment, his desire for rest and relaxation resulted in his catching a malady known as… writer’s block.

Tap…

But in a minute all of that will change as this blogger will discover a site sure to arouse his curiosity—LIKE THAT COULD EVER HAPPEN—a site not found on any browser known to man. A site found only… in The Twilight Zone.

And now for a word from our sponsor.

BUY… buy items from any sponsor of this blog, which at the moment appears to be no one. So become the first, won’t you? After all, wouldn’t you like to be responsible for my getting paid by the click? Why of course, you would.

And now back to our post.

Tap… tap… tap. Honey, I can’t think of a single thing to write about. I’ve already written about multiple things, so that subject is totally out of the question.

Have you tried Plinky.com?

I’d try Plinky, Winky, and Nod if I thought it would help. Wait a minute! How is it you know about Plinky? I mean you don’t even own a blog much less read anything on WordPress.

Sweetie, I’ve told you before… I know everything. I’m going out to the store, you want anything?

How about a million dollars… AND A NEW POST?

I’ll see what I can do. Bye sweetheart.

(Sound of the front door closing)

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have an idea for a post right now. Guess I’m just going to have to check out Google. (Click!)

Wow, this looks interesting.

“Are you a blogger who’s run out of ideas? Wanna write about topics no one else has ever dared dream of? Have I peaked your interest yet? Still curious? Well, why not bare your soul and write like the Devil. Click on this icon and get under way right now. Discover blogging that’s out of this world! After all, what have you got to lose?”

Why not? I’ll do it! (Click!) POOF!

Back to our sponsor. Have you committed yet? Ad space is still available. “You have my word on it.”

Dailymotion

Now back to our post.

(Sound of the front door opening)

Honey, I forgot my keys. Sweetheart? Honey? HEY, WHERE IN THE HELL ARE YOU?

Old proverb: Curiosity killed the cat.

A blogger has gone missing. A search is being conducted even as we speak. Was he the victim of pushing the panic button out of curiosity, or simply of writer’s block?

Perhaps it was a little of both.

But you and I know he’s still present and accounted for, filed away in another location. Filed away and listed as missing…  in The Twilight Zone.