About Those Who Brave 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 quite puts a smile on a bloggers face more than comments found at the end of one of their posts. Unless you don’t own a computer or a blog—in which case you could probably care less.

As for the rest of us, though, comments at the end of a post are almost always guaranteed to bring a smile to someone’s face.

Even if that someone happens to be, Angus (The Big Mouth Troll) MaGillicutty, who it seems regularly leaves me negative comments.

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

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

In fact, the smiles your comments bring to my face are often bigger than that smile which crossed my face when my wife announced to me that she was gonna let me take out the trash from now on…now that the kids have moved out.

Hey, I’ll have less to take out. Yippee!

Anyway, I’ve always felt comments were the real bread and butter of our blogs, and apparently Mrs. Mildred Hogbottom of Terre Haute, Indiana agrees with me.

She writes: “Thank god for the comment section on your blog, Paul. Otherwise, I would have left your WordPress blog years ago!”

Me too Mildred, me too.

You see folks, comments are what make doing a blog so much fun. For example: Just try to imagine my blog without your comments? Now you’re probably thinking, “What blog?”

Exactly!

See, if it weren’t for you writing comments all the time I’d have no reason to write a response. Like saying clothes make the man (unless you happen to be a woman) comments make the blog.

Well, my blog anyway.

And that’s why I can’t wait to see who’s gonna try to ring my bell next. I mean, when I look up and see an orange colored dot up there on my bell You know the one I’m talking about—up in the right-hand corner of your reader.

Because, when that happens—viola! A post is born!

So, is it any wonder then why the visitors to my blog always say, “Paul, the best thing about your blog is the comments section.”

And that’s why I can say with full confidense folks, that our comments yours, mine, and non-bloggers, are without a doubt the best comments ever written in WordPress.com’s…price range.

 

 

 

 

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Of Fools, Eggs, And Big Bunnies

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

APRIL FOOLS!

Gotcha! Unless, of course, you happen to be one of the zombies I just mentioned. In which case, the shoe might 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 all are a lot like me (NO REALLY) and, no doubt, feel 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, 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 no less! Shortly, thereafter, my mom (and the 2 million dollars) skipped town.

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

Of course, not every Easter egg hunt will have the same 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 on him! Oh…and have a 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 think I was smacked upside my head with an artificial automated snowball, or possibly an old wadded up sock—and one filled with lots of coin.

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

My initial theory was, that WordPress may possibly 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 my theory correct.

So when I postulated that idea to my wife she suggested…

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

I had to admit her idea made much more sense than mine—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 too.

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, giving me a complete PAIR of coin-filled socks.

And… an awful headache.

A New Original Holiday Tale And Its—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 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 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—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, I 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 just 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 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.

Today the puddle is better known as “The Oasis of Balderdash.” Of course, it could have been much worse for Zedlemeyer—you could lose your yurt in a deal like that!

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

So, wanting to help the LITTLE WINGED HARPIES (Uh… 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 perhaps, 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 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.

Well, you didn’t expect a group of elves to go and claim that they saw their bosses name on THE NAUGHTY LIST… did you?

As for those three nefarious Sugarplum Fairies… well they weren’t so lucky.

Seems there was this young pregnant woman riding on a donkey, with her husband walking along side.

There they were, the two of them, in the middle of the night no less, looking for a hotel—or so they claimed. Instead, they managed to bed down in a nearby manger.

The unscrupulous Sugarplum Fairies actually tried to pin this tale on the donkey—dummies. Fortunately, the cops weren’t buying their… FAIRY TALE.

But you will… won’t you?

 

A New Original Holiday Tale—That’s Almost Finished

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 hopes 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 now.

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.

This is where three Sugarplum Fairies of ill-repute appeared 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 Instant 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

 

Men: Beware Of Having Adoring Eyes

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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!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You Are Now Reading The Most Renowned Blog In The World

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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.