Men: Beware Of Having Adoring Eyes

Laughing GIF

Are you the proud owner of a wife, or significant other? Well I am, and my significant other has just gotten done reminding me that I don’t own her.

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

“I know that now, but can I finish writing this post?”

“I don’t know… can you?”

“Without interruptions?”

“Far be it from me to stop you.”

“Thank you, dear.”

As I was saying, I adore my significant other just as I am sure you, my readers, adore your (perhaps, ON LOAN) significant other.

However, beware if you should ever get caught ogiling your significant other with adoring eyes.

“Like you did the other night at that party when I caught you undressing me with your eyes?”

“Yes, dear, just like the other night. But, if you remember I did apologize for my ogling you.”

“You looked like a dear caught in the headlights.”

“Guilty as charged. However, I still don’t understand what I did that was so wrong? I mean, what’s wrong with a man sneaking a peek at his wife’s legs every so often?”

“What’s wrong with it, what’s wrong with it? You had me concerned that I had a tear in my stockings!”

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t stop staring. I was like a moth drawn to the flame. YOU WERE GORGEOUS!”

“WERE? Whaddya mean, were?”

“I mean…uh?”

“You mean to say you’re not sure?”

“Well of course I’m sure.”

“And all you can do is stand there stammering?”

“Well uh… uh… well… yeah.”

“Just like that, and what did I say to you?”

“You said… STOP STARING AT ME LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT, WE’RE IN PUBLIC, DUMMY!”

The SuperHeroHype

“Exactly!”

“But honey… you reduced me into some kind of blithering idiot!”

“You did that to yourself.”

“Well yeah, but I didn’t see you as a piece of meat… I saw you with brains too.”

“That’s it! That’s what you said. You said that I had brains too!”

“”Well you do, don’t you?”

“Of course, but it makes me wonder if you do, though?”

“Huh?”

“Men. You’re so clueless at times.”

“I’m not clueless.”

“See what I mean?”

“Huh?”

“Clueless.”

“But dear, you made me feel like a complete fool. It was like the ground underneath me just magically opened up and I couldn’t help but fall in. Now that I think about it, I’m not entirely sure I wasn’t shoved in?”

“Well, you deserved it.”

“I did not!”

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

“I don’t think I was deserved to be ditched, though—in a manner of speaking. All I was trying to do was be your Lothario for the evening, and it was like you turned me into a corpse!”

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

“That’s not true, I’m attracted to your mind.”

“Was it walking around in stockings and wearing heels?”

“Oh, I admit I might have been a little transparent the other night, and yes, I was initially attracted to your physical beauty, but once I fell in love with you I ceased being like all those young male troglodytes and evolved into…”

“AN OLD MALE TROGLODYTE?”

“That’s not fair, which is why I wanted to write this post. To tell you, and everyone else, how much I love you. And, that I’ve never lost my fascination with your MIND. Whaddya think of my post now, huh?”

“I think you need to stop staring at my backside in public.”

“But honey, dumpling, sweetheart… I’M TRYING!”

“I know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’re trying… TRYING MY PATIENCE!”

“Oh for goodness sakes, I give up. YOU WIN. Point, game, MATCH!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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, recently upon my latest return, I was gobsmacked to find that during my most recent absence, my blog “In My Cluttered Attic” was named “Most Popular Blog In The World.”

By none other than “In My Cluttered Attic”!

Not bad wouldn’t you say for a blog whose last post was way back on July 31st?

Now having one’s blog revered and accepted in over 532 lands is really quite gratifying—if only it were true.

However, I do have a blog that is revered in more than 193 or so countries—which sounds even less awesome—AND TOO… IS A TOTAL LIE.

That’s why I’m going stick to my initial claim of being revered and accepted in 532 lands, instead of 531.

But that’s only because Kim Jong Un of North Korea can’t see eye-to-eye with me—on account of his being too short.

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

Neverheless, I think 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 catch what’s going on up in my head.

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

Now naturally, this kind of (deceitful) fame might go straight to some 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—which masquerads as unfiltered clutter between the ears.

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

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

So, not being one to blow my own trumpet—seeing as I can’t play one single note on a trumpet… 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 could sing the praises of my blog for me.

Is it my fault no one in the world can 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 was unable to make the afore mentioned trip around the world.

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 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 found the time yet to write that request for an extension?”

“You know the one I’m talking about? In regards the discussion we had concerning the failure to pay your taxes.” Yours: John Smith, IRS

Whoops, how in the world did that get in there? Excuse me won’t you?

Seems, I have to go write a little “Dear John” post.

 

 

 

 

 

WordPress, My Followers, And Paper Shredders

 

I know. It’s been a while since I last wrote about something, huh? So how’s this work again? Wait, I think I remember now.

I write this small (but tall) tale, one which no one else is able to identify with and I then delibrately change the direction of my story. This I do as a substitute for a plot twist whenever I’m working without a plot—which is practically every post.

I then infuse the narration with what I feel passes for humor—so far, 1,602 kinds and counting— and then the laugh meter say’s, no hits recorded.

Maybe it’s broke?

Still, I’ve published another post gets published, and that’s all that matters—unless you’re a WordPress employee in charge of making sure none of my posts ever see the light of day.

And, should one of my posts ever (accidentally) make their Discover page I suspect the employee put in charge of preventing that kind of fopah would probably attempt to leap off of a window ledge.

Possibly on the ground floor of his or her apartment, unless they live in a multi-story dwelling—then all bets are off.

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

Or, maybe it’s because so many of my posts have been seeing the light of day, so much so that WordPress felt they had to save face by closing their office doors.

I can dream, can’t I?

Nevertheless, I have had a few comments of late (too few to mention), saying how much I’m missed by my followers and that they hope I will soon write again.

As a result of this (encouraging) revelation, I am now conducting a thorough investigation to see if any of these wonderful folks are on my payroll—which might result in there getting a raise. That is, if I do have a payroll?

However, if they don’t happen to be on my payroll (still looking into that one), and seeing how much of what I do 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 that these folks have an empty paper shredder in need of something to consume.

Hmm… could account for why my followers miss me?

Nah, paper shredders don’t get hungry… do they?

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.

A Man’s Mystical Manual of Instruction

pinterest

pinterest

He knew the instant he slid his butt into the chair that it was meant to be. After all, how could anyone sit in front of a computer without a chair? With this perfunctory action comfortably out of the way, it became clear what he was supposed to do. But how?

Man’s Mystical Manual of Instruction, that’s how. And exactly what is A Man’s Mystical Manual of Instruction, you ask?

A cryptic book providing guidance for any man when in doubt as to what it is he should be doing. All men are equipped with one—at least as far as I know.

It’s a fact (well, NOW IT IS) that a man should subscribe all of his unconscious thoughts to this book—that is, when the television isn’t on which as any wife will tell you is the true source of all man’s knowledge. Well, my wife will swear by that anyway.

Also—as a man who has never read the book—it’s internal—I noticed that it states on page 6 section 12 paragraph C…

“Occasionally it is good for a man to have an idea and go do something about it—so that his wife will know he’s still breathing.”

I guess that’s why they call it A Man’s Mystical MANual of Instruction because without it males would probably go out and do something absolutely stupid—and ironically we sometimes still do.

Like the time when I was a boy of eight and (foolishly) tried to go jump a picket fence, but it was in the manual so naturally I went and did it.

You’ll never convince me the reason I had a high pitched soprano voice for the next twenty-five years, was because of some adolescent hormonal change.

Puberty my ass!

Nevertheless, that’s what A Man’s Mystical Manual of Instruction does for you. It tells a man what it is he’s supposed to do… even when it defies all logic—LIKE ATTEMPTING TO JUMP OVER A PICKET FENCE LIKE AN IMBECILE!

You want an example, huh? Alright, let me think of one… I’ve got it!

Boing Boing

Boing Boing

Fabio! Now there’s a guy who was born to look into mirrors… and occasionally do commercials.

That’s the stuff mystical manuals are made of!

You say you want another example? Jeez, you’re a demanding group of readers. Hmm…

Alright, how about, Bruce Jenner?

Now there’s a guy who went on to win the men’s decathlon. Of course, Caitlyn Jenner came along later and changed everything and I do mean… EVERYTHING!

Naturally, after that, Bruce was immediately bounced from the man rolls and given his walking papers, never to subconsciously consult A Man’s Mystical Manual of Instruction ever again. But rules are rules.

Hey, don’t blame me it’s not my fault. I didn’t create the Man’s Mystical Manual of Instruction—only the rules found in it. It’s up to you guys to follow the rules.

Just remember, though, I’m not the guy who was a guy who became the woman who changed the guy into a woman… LITERALLY!

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yeah… so back to the guy sitting in a chair in front of his computer. Now this guy, his thing, the thing he was born to do (as recorded in… the Man’s Mystical Manual of Instruction), turns out it was his destiny.

And it’s a good thing too, because imagine if he wasn’t meant to do it? That means some other poor sap would have gotten stuck with that fate. Why this guy might still have been sitting in front of his television (snoring) if he hadn’t discovered his true manifest destiny?

That’s right, you heard me correctly—and if you did, you’ve really got great ears because I only wrote that part—IT WAS HIS MANIFEST DESTINY! Uh… accompanied by an epiphany, which we’ll get to later.

Turns out, that was my manifest destiny.

Now I know all this is hard for you to believe, but there it is in black and white on page 4,234,592,001,632, section 7, paragraph D of my personal copy of A Man’s Mystical Manual of Instruction and it states, and I’m quoting…

Shutterstock.com

Shutterstock.com

“The guy in the chair in front of his computer—that would be me—as listed in the “In My Cluttered Attics” blog post dated Monday, January 30, 2017—will discover his manifest destiny and this will lead to his having an epiphany—which might have to be removed later by means of brain surgery.”

And what exactly was my manifest destiny—excluding the epiphany? It was for me to become one of the early pioneers responsible for the expansion of America—by way of the information highway.

Huh?

Okay, so I missed the appointment with manifest destiny by over a hundred years.

That’s a good thing, though, because it also meant that I avoided the challenging—if not virtually impossible—journey to expand 19th century America by way of the, as yet, unpaved information highway.

Now I know what you’re thinking here, you’re thinking: “Please no more I can’t take it!” But we all have to press on… there’s no turning back now!

Why you ask?

Well, what else would you have me do, refer you all to the National Hieroglyphics Channel on the subject? You know they did a special on this topic back in 69 B.C. However, oddly enough, they never ran the episode again? Also, the DVD hasn’t come out on Amazon yet either?

Guess they’re waiting for the directors cut.

So… we have no choice but to press on… TOGETHER… because I don’t wanna have to recount this whole affair all by myself.

Anyway it’s just as well,. You see A Man’s Mystical Manual of Instruction has never recommended a National Hieroglyphics Channel episode ever.

Well… not one originating in my unconscious thought process, anyway.

And what about those episodes originating in my conscious thoughts, you ask?

That’s one I’m too afraid to think about.

All the same, I haven’t finished my post here yet, and I’ve established a quota of about thousand words, which should leave me about three hundred more to go. So just wait where you are folks, we’re almost there, and then you can go to the bathroom and tinkle.

Now cutting to the epiphany part of the manual—it’s listed in the bibliography section.

So this guy (Moi), suddenly comes to realize that his manifest destiny of expanding 19th century America (through the information highway) has passed him by. That’s when I decided to get on the internet and head out west.

Then I discovered that the early pioneers stopped expanding westward when they hit the Pacific Ocean—imagine that, who knew—probably because their Conestoga wagons weren’t water-proof.

Suddenly the epiphany struck…

“I realized I didn’t need a water-proof Conestoga wagon to expand 19th century America. All I really needed was Google Maps… well, and Minecraft!

That’s right… with Google Maps and Minecraft I could set out to blaze a whole new trail.

So I started (and ended) by extending the old Oregon Trail to a point out in the Pacific Ocean 40 degrees North Latitude by 130 degrees West Longitude, where the Feds finally caught up with me for loitering on (my now derelict) oil platform.

They ordered me to cease and desist (can you believe it?) in the telling of this tall tale which for some reason has resulted in my growing a rather long nose?

Giphy

GiphyAlright, so Man’s Mystical Manual of Instruction can sometimes lead you astray—like out into the middle of the Pacific Ocean.It ain’t perfect.

So, what does A Man’s Mystical Manual of Instruction tell us about man and his occasional lapses in thinking?

That perhaps man is not perfect after all, and all because of his inner mystical manual of instruction… BEING OBVIOUSLY DEFECTIVE!

Therefore…

Maybe we shouldn’t blame man—who is a marvelous creature (sometimes) for all of his illogical thinking, but instead, blame his DEFECTIVE AND BROKEN MANual!

Just for the record… my wife says that last part is just a whole bunch of poppycock.

See, what did I tell you? GOTTA BE THE MANUALS FAULT.

2017… Going Where No Man Has Gone Before

Best Animations

Best Animations

Captains Log, Stardate 2017.5. Having just left the Delta quadrant, where we finished off yet another peaceful intervention by destroying a bunch of Klingons and their vessels (because they’re bad, and not in a Michael Jackson way), I retired to my cabin slipping into a deep sleep, and began to dream.

In my dream I was with this beautiful female alien… while shirtless, yet AGAIN. Not that that is important to Starfleet in any way. However, this female alien had this multi-colored face and was wearing what appeared to be some sort of ancient space toga.

Why they never wear a typical space suit is beyond me? Then again, I’m certainly glad she didn’t have 14 arms, 5 claws, and 1 eye with no hair, or I can guarantee you I wouldn’t have shed my shirt… quite as fast.

So I was just about to kiss this female alien when Dr. McCoy summons me to the bridge—DARN!

giphyI arrived on deck just in time to witness Bones (Dr. McCoy) debating with first officer Spock on a rather questionable decision he was making as to where our next adventure should take us.

Bones: Spock, have you taken leave of your senses? Go back to earth to the year 2017? Are you out of your ever loving Vulcan mind?

Spock: On the contrary Doctor, I’m in complete control of my faculties, and it’s imperative we go back to earth now… before the wrath of Negan.

Kirk: Spock… McCoy… what’s… happening?

Bones: Jim, you’re doing it again.

Kirk: What? What am I doing again?

Spock: Pausing between your words captain, a pattern suggestive of Shakespeare, but more likely that of an actor hoping to turn all the attention back onto himself, instead.

Kirk: Star Fleet Academy class of 3054. It’s called modulation, Spock, you should try it.

Spock: That would not be logical captain.

Kirk: Of course not. (deep breath) Why earth, why now?

Bones: He thinks it’s full of ZOMBIES, Jim!

(An answer I hadn’t quite expected, but this being space the final frontier and all, and given what we’ve seen lately, I supposed anything was possible. So I remained calm and asked…)

Kirk: Is that true, Spock?

Spock: I’m afraid so captain.

Kirk: He says its true, Bones.

McCoy: But Jim, do you honestly believe earth has been overrun with… ZOMBIES?

Kirk: I don’t know doctor, but if has, I suspect they’ll be passed your skills as a surgeon.

Pinterest

Pinterest

Spock: Captain I assure you, earth is full of zombies.

Kirk: Of that I have no doubt, Spock, but we’re the U.S.S. Enterprise not the Starship… BIG SURPRISE. It’s true we go where no man has gone before, but don’t you think this is going a bit too far? I mean, I know we’ve had Tribbles before, but this?

Spock: Just back to earth, captain.

Bones: Spock, are you seriously suggesting we ignore Starfleets five year mission for us: to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life forms, new civilizations, and boldly go where no man has gone before? Return to earth to the year 2017 and face THE WALKING DEAD? You can’t be serious?

Spock: Doctor, the needs of the many out way the needs of the few, or even the one—as in your case.

Kirk: Where have I heard that before?

Bones: Why you green blooded, pointy eared…

Kirk: That too.

Spock: Doctor… I have been, and always will be, a fan of The Walking Dead.

Kirk: Now I know I’ve heard that somewhere before, or at least something like it. Bones, can he be fixed?

Bones: Spock?

Kirk: Yes!

Bones: Well I don’t know. I’m a doctor, A DOCTOR,  JIM… NOT A PROCTOLOGIST!

Kirk: Spock, I think Dr. McCoy just called you uh…

Spock: I’m well aware of what the good doctor is implying, captain. But the fact remains, we must change course for earth, before it’s too late.

Kirk: Too late for what, Spock? You mentioned Negan? What’s a Negan

Spock: Not what, captain, who. He walks among The Walking Dead, wrecking havoc.

Kirk: What on earth for?

Tell Tales

Tell Tales

Spock: So he can weaken the series ratings, captain.

Kirk: You mean this Negan is trying to wreck a television series… not earth?

(Just then, I felt myself being shaken awake by…)

Mr. Chekov: Keptan, Keptan, KEPTAN ARE YOU ALRIGHT?

Kirk: Mr. Chekov? Yes, yes I’m fine Mr. Chekov.

Mr. Chekov: Keptan, Mr. Sulu wants to know if we should proceed at warp speed?

Kirk: Warp? Most certainly was.

Mr. Chekov: What’s that Keptan?

Kirk: Oh nothing. Yes, uh, tell Mr Sulu warp factor six. The sooner I’m out of this nightmare the better. I really gotta stop drinking that Romulan ale!