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?

Netanimations.net

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!

123RF Stock Photos

That’s when it hit me…

Another wadded up sock, giving me a complete PAIR of coin-filled socks.

And… an awful headache.

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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 thier boom boom sticks into a 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… 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.

And so that 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 and watch football too. But… ALL IN THEIR MEMORY!

Well, that, and it beats the hell out of eating meatloaf again.

So, eat up, and Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

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A New Original Holiday Tale And Its—ALMOST Thrilling Final

Free Clipart

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—Well Almost

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

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, just like the other night. So what?”

“So you looked like a dear caught in the headlights.”

“Okay, guilty as charged. But what did I do 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? I thought I had a tear in my stockings!”

“But you didn’t, did you? Besides, I couldn’t stop staring, I was like a moth drawn to the flame. YOU WERE GORGEOUS!”

“WERE?

“I mean… was. Is! Are?”

“You mean you’re not sure?”

“Well of course I’m sure.”

“And all you could do was 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! That’s what you said to me.”

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 it! That’s what you said!”

“What? What did I said?”

“You said you saw me with brains too!”

“Well you do, don’t you?”

“Of course I do! Makes me wonder if you have, 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?”

“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. I mean what man does? All I was trying to do was be your be Lothario for the evening, and it was like you turned me into a corpse!”

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

“Not true. I’m different, 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!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of Posts, Followers, WordPress, And Paper Shredders

 

It’s been a while since I last wrote about something, so how’s this work again? Oh yeah, I remember now.

I write this small but tall tale, one which no one else is able to identify with, and then I delibrately change the direction of the 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 my narration with all kinds of humor—so far, 1,602 kinds and counting, and still the laugh meter is saying no hits recorded! Maybe it’s broke?

But hey… another one of my post gets published!

That, of course, is all that matters—unless you’re a WordPress employee in charge of making sure none of my posts ever see’s the light of day—which sometimes happens.

And should one of my posts ever (accidentally) make their Discover page, then you just might catch one of those employees attempting to leap off a window ledge somewhere.

Probably on a first floor—unless perhaps they live in a multi-story house or apartment complex—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 seen the light of day, that WordPress felt they had to save face.

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 write again soon.

As a result of this revelation, I’m conducting a thorough investigation to see if any of these wonderful folks are on my payroll, which should result in there getting a raise—just in case I actually do have a payroll.

However, if they don’t happen to be on my payroll (still investigating), 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 these folks have an empty paper shredder in need of something to consume.

Hmm… could account for why my followers miss me?

Nah! Gotta be ’cause they miss me—gotta be.

Waiting To Die

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

Meaning? You’re dead, no life.

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

Assisted suicide.

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

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

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

Face it Mr Fly, you entered my home illegally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOOOO… HONEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

“What?”

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

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

OH.

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

Pinterest

YES DEAR.

 

 

 

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

Popkey.co

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently it wasn’t.

ChessBase

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

He was right… I wasn’t interested.

Hey… I discovered the true definition of… covfefe!

WHO KNEW?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, Tom Hanks Is My Brother

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Pinterest

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

THUD!

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

I just figured you guys already knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Odyssey Online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Is One Whale Of A Tale!

No doubt, many of you think you know the true story of Noah and the Ark—it was in all the papers. However, recently a survivor of the voyage—a mysterious Dutchman (found floating in a lifeboat) who has since taken up flying—has come forward and told a reporter (our only reporter) here at “The Attic” a very revealing story about Captain Noah.

Did you know—Of course, you couldn’t have as I’ve only just leaked it to “The National Enquirer”—that Noah was actually a halibut fisherman from Norway? It’s true!

Apparently, Noah was really BIG into boats—probably because he had a sweet tooth. Anyway, one day after eating a whole box of chocolates, he went out fishing in the Norwegian fjords in his canoe, the Jonah. Sadly, he and his canoe were swallowed whole by a great white whale named, Moby.

graphics factory

Hard to swallow I know, I mean who names their whale, Moby, right? But it’s gospel I swear, just not during this post—because the Pope reads this blog.

This incident gave Noah a life-long irrational fear of sharks (which, by the way, were completely exonerated of all guilt in the attack by the Gorton’s Fisherman of Gloucester), and this inevitably led Noah to repeatedly tell his wife…

“I think I’m going to need a bigger boat.”

However, Noah’s wife was having none of it and eventually grew weary of Noah’s whining about his needing a new yacht. One day she finally said to Noah, “If you want a bigger boat, go talk to the lord?”

Noah took her advice and went to the only lord he knew, one Lord Quinton Hooper Brody, First Lord of the Admiralty of Amity Island and asked him about a loan for building an ark. The Lord told Noah, “Why not go build one yourself and while you’re at it, try stocking it with a whole bunch of animals!”

Noah, a simple man not recognizing sarcasm when he heard it, immediately set about rounding up all the male and female animals of the world by two. This ridiculous business took him away from his wife and family for years at a time—400 years to be precise, give or take a year or two—and his wife was forever grateful.

But Noah—having never built an ark before—decided he needed some instruction.

This led him to the local library to get the book “Ark Building for Dummies.” However, he first had to pay a late fee on an overdue book called, “An Idiots Guide to Throwing Chum Overboard into Shark-Filled Waters while Fishing out of a Canoe.”

Copyright, Doubleday Press, 2304 B.C.

Another little known fact came out during our interview with the Dutchman. Seems Noah also created the first press gang when he enlisted his sons to assist him with the building of the ark.

At first, he and his sons got into an angry debate over what the exact dimensions of a cubit might be.

Apparently, Noah thought a cubit was the size of his middle finger because he kept holding his middle finger up throughout the entire argument? Eventually, though, he was overruled by two of his boys Ham and Yam (both named after their favorite foods) when they produced a tape measure and a ruler from under their tunics.

The ship then set sail for a three-hour tour. But the weather started getting rough (thanks to some rather torrential rains, which the national weather service failed to predict) and the ark started getting tossed, and if not for the courage of its fearless crew, Noah’s Ark would have been lost.

scary for kids

Also, according to the Dutchman, the ark (which was on its maiden voyage at the time) narrowly averted a collision with an iceberg—hence the Dutchman went overboard in a lifeboat.

After 40 days and 40 nights the ark set ground on the shore of an uncharted desert Turkish mountain named, Gilligan. Eventually, Noah renamed it Mt. Ararat—possibly out of fear of being sued for copyright infringement.

Captain Noah, eventually went on to even greater fame when he became a shipping tycoon, realizing his childhood dream of building a fleet of cruise ships. Perhaps you’ve heard of it… “NOAHwegian Cruise Lines?”