All That Glitters

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps.

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

No? well … it was worth a try.

Where was I?

Dodo.com

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

But, what do “THEY” truly know anyway?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do I know that, you ask?

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

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

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

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

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Glitter, if you will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GLITTER!

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

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

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

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

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

All, that I might corner the glitter market.

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

She claimed it was all gimcrackery anyway.

What an ill-informed edumacated person.

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

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

$50 a ounce!

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

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

Then we all get rich together!

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Invasion Of The Body Attackers

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

Some doctor?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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THEY LOOK HIDIOUS!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gives one pause, doesn’t it?

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

Makes you think, doesn’t it?

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Being Brave Enough To Comment And Respond

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yay! Less to take out then.

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

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

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

Exactly!

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

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

And Viola! A real post is born.

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

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

 

 

 

 

Of Fools, Eggs, And Big Bunnies

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

It’s APRIL FOOLS DAY!

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

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

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

Ahem, but, changing the subject completely.

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

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

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

No fooling.

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

April Fools!

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

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

You know…A REAL POOKA.

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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?”

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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.

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

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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.

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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

 

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!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.