How Merlin Found Himself In The Court Of King Arthur

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You’ve probably all heard of Merlin the great wizard who once tutored King Arthur of Camelot. But, did you know Merlin’s real name was actually, Marvin?

Marvin Popplebottom. From Hoboken, New Jersey.

He was a dishwasher in training there for many years—58 to be precise. But that was years ago—in the future.

And as big a story as that might be, it pales in comparison to how Merlin found himself in King Arthur’s court.

That ones a real doozy!

According to Wikileaks, it all started on Stardate 3364.12. Marvin came home having just finished watching the latest Rocky sequel down at the local cinema —— Rocky CVIII.

Walking in, he flipped on “60 Minutes” (a show that will run forever), just in time to catch the breaking news (is there any other kind theses days?) that ‘The Borg” had just launched a full-scale Thermonuclear attack on earth and all of its inhabitants.

Our planet’s imminent destruction was only moments away.

Tor.com

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Now history (and Wikipedia) tell us that 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 — he was, and is, a senior citizen. 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, he (the dealer) had been unable to sell it because, it came with no wheels — I have it on good authority that that’s extra on most time machines.

However, unbeknownst to the dealer, Marvin was an avid fan of H.G. Wells films, and so he instantly recognized the time machine as being the real deal, and went on to offer the dealer his last $84 dollars. All he had left in his pocket — remember he’s a dish washer.

Now with tax and licensing it came to a little under 87 dollars and 12 cents — $86.10 cents to be exact — in case you’re ever in the market for a used time machine.

So, Marvin went home and broke into his piggy bank returning to the dealership with the balance in hand.

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

Well, upon hearing that The Borg were about to annihilate earth and all of its inhabitants — Marvin, having become a recent convert to the idea that one’s future might possibly lie in one’s past — felt that moment had arrived.

With only minutes to spare, Marvin raced down to the local courthouse, stood in line (one similar to the kind you find at the DMV), and had his name legally changed to, Merlin the Magician.

No one really knows why — not even this writer.

Then donning some vacation attire (as he was planning on leaving town), 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 breakneck speed.

Peeling rubber, as it were.

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

Just about the best $86.10 anyone ever spent.

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

For example; he learned what kind of berries and mushrooms not to eat by simply watching other dummies keel over and die after randomly sampling a few of the wrong kind — seems they them never bothered to consult with the Food and Drug Administration in advance to see if they were safe to eat.

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 something called … a Bidet.

Naturally, this was just the sort of knowledge that helped put Merlin in good stead with King Arthur.

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There was nothing Merlin couldn’t accomplish. Turn Arthur into animals to learn how they think? No problem. Better some other up and coming wizard in a duel? Done! Merlin could even wash dishes with just the wave of his wand. Not that he needed one, seeing as he already had 58 years of experience—show off.

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

What convertible, you ask? The one Arthur’s next door neighbor, Sir Gwain, had sitting on his driveway.

A bright red Farrari Portofino with black leather interior, with lots of chrome. No one knows how or where he got it, but rumor had it that some mysterious lady (who happened to live in a Lake) might have had something to do with it.

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

“Merlin” he said, “Merlin, make me a convertible like Sir Gwain’s.” To which, Merlin replied, “Horsefeathers!”

Arthur, outraged with Merlin, then asked “What do you mean saying horsefeathers to me? I’m the king!”

Merlin replied, “No sire, I was only saying that I was need horsefeathers to accomplish such a magical task. You know, for horsepower?”

So, the next day, Arthur returned with a few horsefeathers (in those days every horse came with them, standard) and Merlin launced into doing some kind of incantation, and … POOF!

Arthur became a convertible —complete with four wheel drive!

“What have you done to me?” exclaimed 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 being hauled into King Arthur’s Court and put on trial for performing witchcraft — without a license.

Under cross examination Merlin lost it and forgetting himself (viewing the whole mess as a pit stop gone wrong) stood up and screamed that famous quote from the Disney film “The Sword in the Stone”…

“Well, blow me to Bermuda!” forgetting that there was no Bermuda anymore as the Borg had blown it up.

Ramble On

God only knows where Merlin wound up. But, at least Merlin could say, he had his day in court.

Uh … King Arthur’s Court.

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

And if none of this is true … may I never post again!

Or, until I find another fabrication to write about — which lately has been taking me about … three to four months.

What can I say, this attic of mine is a cluttered mess these days. But, having possibly been here before, you probably already knew that, huh?

 

 

 

 

 

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How A Post Was Born

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

Even for 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 maybe 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, coins, if Sterling licks them — Silver Alert!

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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 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 he’s never lacking for silver bells come Christmas.

Plus, he’s quite famous for having created the silver screen—he recieved a 27 inch TV for his birthday and kissed it.

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

Unfortunately, no 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 ’cause it was made out of red bricks.  But, that all changed after he started drinking there.

Now folks call it, The Bar of Silver.

Seems word got out that Sterling gets intoxicated. He starts staggering around and running into walls —locking lips with bricks.

Nowadays practically everyone brings him bricks him bricks to kiss. 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.”

Or…

How A Post Was Born.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Sure, 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?

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Wikipedia

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.

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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…

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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?

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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!

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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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A New Original Holiday Tale, Part Two—The Almost Thrilling Final

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

“Baxter the Snowman and Three Dance Around the Truth Sugarplum Fairies.”

It’s written by a new—but brilliant up and coming author—who bears a striking resemblance to some character with a red nose.

Part One of our story introduced us to, Baxter, the 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 promise 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 Instant Crystals, “They’re magically delicious and melt in your coffee… NOT IN YOUR SAND.”

We pick up our story with the ANIMATED, Tim Burton, now narrating.

P.S.—he can’t sing a lick so no holiday songs here.

Take it away, Tim!

Huh? Oh, yeah, right. Let me see… where were you now? Oh yeah.

So without further adieu, I present to you … one Dickens of a Christmas Story.

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

Baxter, is unaware that the mischievous trio of fairies are actually rejects from Fairies Local 79—fired for dancing poorly without a license.

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

Except for items made in China—for which they have an aversion.

In fact, the local nomad news recently reported that a Mongolian camel dealer by the name of, Herman T. Zidlemeyer, had recently 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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They also claimed they were in posession of  the Famed Sacred Snowball of Azhar Malik (a ball of styrofoam made up to look like a snowball), and were willing to swap it with Zidlemeyer for his horse—who shall remain nameless.

Zidlemeyer barely crawled back home to his wife who, recognizing the fabled snowball’s value—that of being totally worthless except for 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 in the middle of the Oasis.

Better known as “The Oasis of Balderdash.”

Zedlemeyer thought himself lucky—the bad deal could have cost him his yurt.

Anyway, Baxter, suffered from brain freezes (a condition not uncommon to snowmen), and couldn’t remember if he’d seen the nomad news report concerning the Zedlemeyer incident or not.

So, wanting to help the (LITTLE WINGED HARPIES) 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 (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 about $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.

Baxter, not known for his dancing skills—what snowman is, after all, they don’t have legs, unless perhaps, they’re named Frosty—tried to join in and dance with the larcenous trio.

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 himself—Santa Claus.

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Baxter, was later released on his own recognizance when it became clear that he couldn’t stand the heat. Even got his corncob pipe from L.L. Bean—BECAUSE SANTA DELIVERS.

Santa? Oh he got off for good behavior.

You didn’t really expect a group of elves to rat out their boss as having his name on THE NAUGHTY LIST now … did you?

And what became of the three Sugarplum Fairies? Well, they weren’t so lucky.

The three, when caught, said they had found this manger thanks to the brightest star they had ever seen guiding them directly to it.

Claimed that there was this couple (a husband and wife) wondering the desert in the middle of the night. That the young woman was pregnant and riding a donkey. Said they were looking for a hotel room to bed down in for the night.

The fairies swapped the manger for the couple’s donkey, then tried to pin this tall tale—ON THE DONKEY.

Can you believe it?

Fortunately, the cops weren’t buying it.

But you will… won’t you?

 

A New Original Holiday Tale—Which Is Not Quite Finished

Christmas Done Bright

The most wonderful time of the year is nearly here 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 new all-time classic…

“Baxter the Snowman and Three Dance Around the Truth Sugarplum Fairies.”

Now I know what you’re going to ask? You’re going to ask, “Paul, what in the world was in your spiked pumpkin spiced latte?”

Well, I don’t rightly know, but it may have had something to do with the creation of that great title and the story I’m about to tell.

Why, any day now there’s bound to be a audio book version of this post at your local 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!—an absolute must for the whole (blended) family.

None of that is important though—until the cash starts rolling in.

No, what’s really important is that this story never has been a novel, movie adaptation, nor holiday television special—filled with plenty of 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 like a frozen popcycle in a microwave oven. He’s staring up into the night sky in hopes that the big red elf known as, Santa Claus, will be bringing him a corncob pipe—it was on back order from L.L. Bean.

Suddenly, a streaking bright object races across the Eastern sky.

Why it’s Santa Claus!

And what’s this? He’s being chased by the Nomadic Air Patrol. Maybe we should just skip that part. No point in sticking around to watch Santa get a speeding ticket.

This is where three Sugarplum Fairies of ill-repute appeared out of nowhere—but 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.”

That’s when they asked Baxter to help them in securing funding for an expedition to search for the great snowball. They explain to him that upon finding it they will happily let him have some of the great snowball to replace his melting lower torso.

They tell him that the great snowball is magically made from Folgers Instant Crystals, crystals only that only melt in coffee, and that since he’s a snowman and doesn’t drink—or swim—in coffee his lower half will probably be set for life.

That’s a good story.

But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow—or four more days—for the ALMOST thrilling finish to our tale.

Because, being a complete dunderhead, I accidentally pressed publish before finishing my post and 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 so far.

Wait a minute!

THAT’S IT, JUST FIVE HUNDRED OR SO WORDS?

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

Stay tuned for part two of our story…

A New Original Holliday Tale, Part Two—The Almost Thrilling Final.

 

Inkyboy