An October Tale

vintagegal

vintagegal

“Don’t you realize that that old place is haunted?” they asked. Yes, I had heard the recent claims that every once in a while you might hear moans and groans closely followed by an occasional shriek of maniacal laughter coming from within its walls.

But being a skeptic I found that hard to believe.

Now had I been gullible—primarily a condition I find myself in on weekends due to alcohol consumption—I might have felt differently about it. But this being a weekday, I was absolutely certain I was cynically sober.

Going into the place might mean confronting a sense of anxiety and foreboding, which now spilled over my entire body. This—courtesy of my wife a compulsive house-cleaner with a penchant for sweeping up adjectives I frequently drop.

It all felt like sticky Ectoplasm, only worse than the stuff Slimer lathered all over Bill Murray in Ghostbusters.

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The site—which had been abandoned for some time now—ominously oozed terror. I can’t say why (according to my attorney) unless I put it in writing.

Why?

Because nothing ever jumped out or grabbed me there, nor anyone else for that matter. At least, not to my knowledge—which is apparently limited to a second grade education.

Still, the possibility of something like that actually happening to me left me curious about how I might handle it.

I realize curiosity has killed many a cat, but not being a feline myself (unless you count the time a gypsy fortune teller put a spell on me), I had no worries. That was until, someone told me cats have nine lives, and with few exceptions… people don’t.

Darn it, if only my wife—who wears a white glove and happens to have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder)—hadn’t been so fanatical about throwing out all my little bits of paper, including the gypsy’s business card…

Then I might still be a cat!

I myself suffer from HCD (Husband Cluttering Disorder), which as any wife will tell you, is a REAL disorder. One every husband suffers from after becoming a male—usually by birth.

But, seeing as my wife had cleaned up all my clutter, I would now be unable to locate the gypsy. Thanks to my wife I was going to have to enter this terrifying place not as a cat, but… AS A HUMAN!

Stories had always surrounded the old place, but that never stopped amateur ghost hunters from trying to sneak past the bad grammar—like chopping and whacking overgrown shrubs—for a chance to get inside. Poor unfortunate souls.

I thought maybe they’d present no obstacle for me either, but I too was wrong. Instead, the stories now haunted me as well echoing throughout the cobwebs of my mind—like bats in a belfry.

Those who did venture inside—and survived to tell the tales—attempted to warn me (in spite of their better judgement) against going in again saying “Don’t go there girlfriend.”

Naturally—not being anybody’s girlfriend—I ignored them.

Once inside, I saw the writing on the wall. No really, I actually saw writing on the walls! It could have been continuous graffiti but I’m almost certain it wasn’t—because that sort of thing only happens in bathroom stalls.

No, this was more like an attempted sophisticated scribble gone bad, done by someone with neither the street smarts, or the familiarity with old Vincent Price horror movies. Where scripts were no doubt written intelligently.

Just then, I tripped over a mouse. A screen monitor sprung to light casting a giant shadow of fear over me. It wasn’t long before I realized… it was only my silhouette flickering on the stairs behind me.

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That’s when it struck me; picture-after- picture on the right side of the wall. This gave me a headache and I began to think to myself…

“Could the frames have been hung on weak hooks?”

Little did I know that these framed and angry people (trapped in this Night Gallery) were lashing out (the only way they could) at the fiend who had coaxed them into this frightening place of horror.

However, it was the photo above them that gave me the biggest chills. It was of some guy with the nose of a clown!

Have you seen the news lately?

Well then you know all about it. How clowns are running amok throughout the land trying to scare people half to death—as opposed to completely to death.

Not being a cat anymore though—thanks to my wife and her neurotic habit of throwing out gypsy business cards—this meant I only had but one life to give.

And so terrified as I was (and likely you as well) I decided to move back into…

MY OLD ABANDONED BLOG!

P.S. This last month was a rather busy one for us. Our oldest son just got married and one of our daughters told us we are going to be grandparents again. So I would like to apologize for my extended absence.

Which means; those of you who may have missed me before, may still get a crack at me by throwing some rotten fruit.

Hey, watch the darts buddy!

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Anozer Zession On Za Couch Wiz Za Good Doctor

“Just think, two months ago I was this almost popular blogger with over 12,000 hits. Not even Elvis would have made such a claim—not that he’d ever would have wanted to either. But, I also had fifty fellow bloggers whom I followed on a regular basis—WordPress doesn’t allow for more—dictators.

And, I myself was followed by over 450 other bloggers, none of whom were stalkers—phew, what a relief! However, I will say, that even they couldn’t explain why they followed my blog. But, that’s probably not important, right?”

“So anyway, here I am lying on your couch again, admiring the ceiling tile as if it were the Sistine Chapel—minus the work of Michelangelo, of course.

“Doc? Did you hear me? Doc?”

Must have drifted off again? Does that a lot whenever I’m here. Poor mans gotta be overworked.

Wonder if he dyes his mustache and goatee to match that salt and pepper colored hair of his? And why do therapists always seem to wear small wire rimmed glasses with thick coke bottle size lenses? I’ve got it… they’re born with a pair!

“ZAT VILL DO MY BOY!” That’s Doctor Auguste (pronounced, Ahgoost). My therapist.

Me: Oh hi doc! Thought you’d dozed off again. W a i t  Ah  m i n u t e… you just read my mind! How’d you do that?

Dr. Auguste: I zink zat I am za von who is zuppose to be asking za questions here? Zo I ask you again, vhat brings you into za office to zee me zis time?

Me: My wife. Hey doc, you were out for a long time there?

Dr. Auguste: Vell zat explains who… vate za minute. Vhat do you mean I was out for za long time? How long is za long?

Me: I don’t know.

Dr. Auguste: Now zat I can believe.

Me: About two months.

Dr, Auguste: Oh vell that’s not so… TWO MONTHS!!! Oh for goodness zakes zat is a long time! Vee really haz to do zomezing about zee’s zessions of yours.

Me: Maybe you could try that mind reading trick on me again. You know the one where you try reaching into my subconscious mind?

Dr. Auguste: No, I zeriously doubt zat zat vill verk. You zee, you don’t haz von of zoes.

Me: Oh well. But hey, that’s still a pretty cool trick you have there, doc. How’d you do it?

Dr. Auguste: Vell I didn’t tell “Vienna’s Got Talent” how I did it, zo I zeriously doubt I’ll be telling you how I doz it, eizer. Never za less, zare must be zome reason vie your vife brought you in to zee me? Zink. Vhat reason could she have for vaunting you to zit back on za couch again?

Me: Well, all I know is, for the last two months she’s complained all I ever do is write in my blog. Oh… and read posts from my little friends.

Dr. Auguste: You haz za little friends, too? Zo you zuffer from za leprechauns halluzanations as vell? Zat vood be bad.

Me: No silly. That’s what my wife calls my blogging buddies.

Dr. Auguste: Oh zank goodness. For za minute zare, I zought maybe you really were out of za mind. Zo zen vhat happenz?

Me: Well, she said she couldn’t take it anymore and asked me to take a break from blogging.

Dr. Auguste: And zo you did, right?

Me: Yep, I even staked out a spot on our sofa where during the last two months I drank lots of beer and ate a ton of fast food. Probably expanded my waistline two full sizes!

Dr. Auguste: Yez, zomsing to be proud of for sure.

Me: You know, she’s even complained about me walking around the house in my underwear with only a robe on. My robe barely fits.

Dr. Auguste: I zee, very zexy.

Me: Really?

Dr. August: No. But continue.

Me: Okay. Maybe it’s because I’ve tried to grow an unkempt beard. You think?

Dr. Auguste: Trying? No, yooz already zuczeeded zare. No, I’d zay zare mus be anozer reason vhy she brought you to zee me.

Me: Hey, (SNAP!) I’ve got it!

Dr. Auguste: I only hopes zits not contagious. Vhat?

Me: I think she misses my blog!

Dr August: Are you nuts? Zats just clazy! Nobody mizzes your blog! You mus trust me on zis.

Me: No, no, no she really does miss my blog. She even said so.

Dr. Auguste: She even zaid zo? I zink maybe it’s time she came in and zat on za couch as vell!

Me: But its true doc. Just last week she changed her mind about me taking a break from my blog, and went so far as to beg me to start writing in it again.

Dr. Auguste: Zat is incledable!

Me: Yes. But having not written in my blog in nearly two months I couldn’t think of a single thing to write about.

Dr. Auguste: Ah ha! Zo you are zuffering from za empty-headed zing again! I knew it!

Me: I guess so. But what can I do about it, doc?

Dr. Auguste: Vell, how za about you vite about za very virst zing zat comes into za head.

Me: Oh I’ve already tried that.

Dr. Auguste: And?

Me: And the fly just flew in one of my ears and out the other.

Dr Auguste: And zat left you wiz za buzz?

Me: Yep. But still no idea what to write about.

Dr. Auguste: Vell vee can’t haz zat now, can vee?

Me: Can we!

Dr. Auguste: No. Ozervize, vee haz you in here all za time. No, I zink you haz to start za viting process vite avay.

Me: But how doc, I haven’t a clue what to write about?

Dr. Auguste: Here, I zuggest you try taking za notes from zis zession. Go now, go, go anz vite your next post wiz my compliments!

Me: But doc…

Dr, Auguste: No, no, I inzist. Bezides, I zink za time is up for zis zession. Please check viz my zecratary, Helga. She vill give you anozer appointment… might even be by za next year! Zo, buh-bye until za next year!

imgur.com

imgur.com

 

Here’s To Exposing My Readers

Welcome everyone. Welcome to the very first day of the “In My Cluttered Attic” bloggers convention! A celebration of those madcap bloggers who crowd into my attic on a regular basis making them the envy of insane asylum inmates everywhere.

(Imagine the applause coming from those padded cells)

I’d like to welcome all of you to the fabulous Caesars Palace here in Las Vegas, Nevada! But I can’t.

BET you didn’t see that one coming?

Yet, thanks to the world of virtual reality (and your imaginations), I can still give you the illusion of being here in Vegas. Just without the fabulous resort hotels, pools, casinos, shows, entertainers, delicious food, and luxury suites that make Vegas…well…Vegas. Otherwise… your practically here!

Now this probably leaves you with a few questions. Like, why am I here? What will I tell my boss when he finds out? Does my family know I’m here? And most of all; is it true what they say, that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?

Well not to worry as none of this is real—at least, not as far as you know. It’s all in your mind, I mean… my mind, or up in my cluttered attic where there appears to be no apparent exits. Not for five days, anyway. Making this… sort of a virtual reality bloggers convention getaway.

Now I realize that for many of you this is probably your first virtual reality trip, and you’re probably thinking to yourself…

“What in the world was I smoking that brought me to this, and how the hell do I get outta of here?”

Ignoring your concerns completely, I’d like to kick off this virtual reality convention by saying—as I look out onto your lovely faces, most of whom are reflecting a look of apoplexy at the moment—thanks to all of you, I actually have a reason to write and do a post today. So let me begin by just saying… thank you.

Now if I could direct your attention over to the gentleman in the second row about five seats in, we’ll get this imaginary convention underway.

You sir, yes you, the one with the bag over your head. That’s right. I singled you out to start this convention, because you’re the only one with a bag for a face.

bun karyudo.wordpress.com

bun karyudo.wordpress.com

We’re all about humor here, and…

Bun? Bun Karyudo, is that you? Ladies and gentleman, a nice round of applause if you will for the one, the only… Bun Karyudo!

If only Bun could hear you applauding right now, then we’d all be here for real. But since we aren’t, Bun has to be wondering what that ringing is in his ears.

Bun hails from over at, https://bunkaryudo.wordpress.com/2016/04/23/el-capitan-making-the-upgrade/ and regularly engages me in hilarious banter that always leaves you and myself in stitches. Which ridiculously explains my rising medical insurance.

And there—sitting virtually next to Bun—is Allen Colane of the, https://thecolaneconundrum.com/2016/04/28/tv-shows/ whose comical insights also frequently leave me rolling in the aisle. Allen, if you would please, help me back up and onto the stage since it’s your fault that I am occasionally on all fours.

Oh look! Taking up the entire first row with all her amazing cats, is my long devoted good blogging buddy, Kate Crimmins, who has been visiting my blog almost from the beginning.

Her blog, https://coffeekatblog.com/2016/04/07/blogging-the-agony-and-the-ecstasy/ is a potpourri of humorous takes on contemporary retired life, consisting of trips to Starbucks, backyard adventures, and how her cats and their distinct personalities impact her and her husband, and their daily life.

And I just have to give a big shout out to the three distinguished looking gentleman in sombreros back there, who are signing autographs. I call them, The Three Amigos.

All three gentleman have made regular pilgrimages to my cluttered attic, and offered kind commentary, right from my very first post on! Yes, I worry for their sanity, too. Still, I can’t thank them enough.

Thank you, thank you, thank you…

Mr. GP Cox at, https://pacificparatrooper.wordpress.com/2016/05/02/intermission-8-dr-seuss-the-troops-and-malaria/ who nobly reminds us of the sacrifices our men and women in uniform have made on our behalf.

Charles French, https://charlesfrenchonwordsreadingandwriting.wordpress.com/2016/03/12/favorite-horror-films-of-the-1960s-the-birds/ who is a voracious, reader, writer, and teacher and who consistently touches on a variety of interesting subject matter.

And my friend actor, comedian, director, and humble god-loving gentleman, Mitch Teemley, who can be found at, https://mitchteemley.com/2016/02/05/my-super-bowl-ad-2/

All three gentleman help make writing my posts very enjoyable… and non-profitable.

But they’re not alone responsible for my impoverished state. That’s why, starting tomorrow, I’m thinking of offering merchandise at the door for day two of the In My Cluttered Attic virtual reality convention.

Just think of it. Not only will I continue to recognize and salute more of you on Tuesday (for your regular visits to my blog), but I might even be able to fleece and take advantage of your wallets, credit cards, and life savings, too. That is, if I can get the card skimmers hooked up in time.

OH JOY!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Desperate To Come Up With A Post To Retain A Few Readers

Having done only one post for the entire month of April—due mostly to a vacation and one trifle after another—I couldn’t wait to get back to doing what it is I truly love and miss most. Working for a living.

ALRIGHT, SO I’M FULL OF IT.

But, I think you’ll understand why I felt that way when I tell you, that upon my return from a recent vacation, I was told by my employers…

THAT IT WAS THEY WHOM I TRULY LOVED AND MISSED MOST.

Naturally, I agreed with them, because they gave me some hush money.

wikivoters.com

wikivoters.com

However, in the weeks since returning home— and falling prey to my employers and their brainwashing tactics, and after washing my mouth out with a high quality bar of soap—I wish to express to you all, that what I honestly loved and missed most, was working on my blog and commenting on your blogs.

HONEST!

Nevertheless, it has occured to me that, maybe some of you were actually GRATEFUL I’d been away, unable to do what it is I truly love and miss most.

Take poor old Herman from Holland, for example; who wrote to tell me how thrilled he was that I was abducted, and never to blog again?

Good old Herman, helped me to realize that maybe I had neglected my blog and all of you, and for far too long. And for what… JUST SO I COULD MAKE SOME MONEY?

Well I felt simply awful, insignificant—and able to pay my bills because of a flush bank account.

Still, horrible thoughts filled my head.

What if Herman (from Holland) wasn’t an isolated case? What if—and I admit it’s only a remote possibility—but what if, there were others who felt the same way about my FORCED absence?

So I immediately began to panic.

Oh I’d had bloggers who abandoned me before, but they were bloggers who had visited my site only ONCE, pressed the like button, only to vanish without ever offering a comment.

Not being one to hold a grudge, I understood these Narcissistic putzes.

Fly by night visitors all. The kind of people who go about reading those lame Huffington Post hyperbole hooks that say something like, “What happens next will terrify you.” Only to click on the site and find themselves staring down the barrel of a Super Soaker.

And this they then proclaim to be… Pulitzer Prize winning material.

Well who needs them! They’re not the kind of visitors I want anyway. Unless, of course, they’re planning on blindly returning to my blog multiple times in the near future.

Then all is forgiven, you fly by night narcissist.

Nevertheless, I was filled with fear and anxiety. The kind of fear and anxiety you feel when you see Dick Cheney walking up your driveway with a rifle wearing a tee-shirt that say’s, “I wanna be your friend.”

Hackwackers.blogspot.com

Hackwackers.blogspot.com

Or the kind of fear and anxiety that fills you with dread when you think; what if Donald Trump really does become President of the United States?

And the same kind of fear and anxiety which drove poor old Herman (from Holland) into hiding…

When he suddenly discovered I’d sent Navy Seals to find him.

Thanks for the horrible postcard, Herman!

Live long and prosper, you dunce. You can run in those clogs of yours—but not very far!

But, back to my immediate problem; What to write about?

I mentioned to my youngest son that I was thinking about doing a post about bloggers who are loyal to a fault.

He responded, “Well dad, I doubt any of you’re readers would want to read about bloggers loyal to something responsible for earthquakes.”

I’ve since decided against asking my youngest son about ANYTHING ELSE. Especially opinions on what to write about—as it is likely to be a total waste of time.

That’s when I had this epiphany—and I’m not even Catholic!

What if I were to do a post on bloggers who continue to ignore the American Medical Associations advice—not to read material found in my attic, as it’s been known to cause irreversible brain damage—and yet they (inexplicably) go on to read my posts, anyway?

Yes, it was a brilliant idea.

Until the heavens opened up, rays of light descended upon me, and I was caught up in the rapture.

Or so I thought, when in fact… I had been abducted by E.T. instead. Thus, ruining a pure moment of blissful genius on my part, and successfully returning me back to my faculties.

And I’m not even a college professor!

Anyway, all of this is just my way of trying to say; that beginning tomorrow—or sometime this year—I’m gonna start gossiping about all of you.

Yeah,and there’s no need to thank me for it—with financial compensation.

And, I’m not going to be gossiping negatively about you, like I have in the past—when I was spreading those horrible lies about you guys.

Nope, no more rumors and innuendos. No more whispering about you guys in the back alley’s, and behind closed doors.

No… I’m going to turn over a new leaf. Hell, I might even start collecting stamps.

And yet, I won’t allow any of that to change my wanting to talk about all of you, in a more positive way.

Now I realize that this move sounds like some kind of bribe on my part. One being attempted by a poor despicable writer, whose blog has only achieved a moderate amount of undue success.

And again you’d be right.

Because this revelation will likely send many of you running out to seek immediate help through electric shock treatments and 12 step programs, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

Particularly if it means exposing (I mean exploring) all your wonderful sites.

So just you wait until this weekend folks… because I can’t do anything about it until I get back in town… because my employers have me on a leash.

If only I hadn’t accepted their promise of a steady paycheck. Then I might have tried this act of desperation a little sooner!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No Post Today And It Is Not Open To Debate

This being Friday and all—and the weekend being upon us—WordPress would probably like nothing better than for me to do a post. Someone in Timbuktu once said, “WordPress always benefits whenever ‘The Attic’ goes to post. That is in no way an outlandish statement—see, I am not a politician.

But, as I told WordPress, if Donald Trump refused to do a debate last night because Fox News anchor Megyn Kelly was going to be a moderator, then I couldn’t do a post today! No particular reason, I just like to do and say crazy things because it sets me apart from the rest of the crowd.

And I simply refuse to debate this issue with any fellow blogger, so there.

It’s not like I care for Fox News or Megyn Kelly—I’m more a CNN Erin Burnett kind of guy. No, this is all about not making a point of not having a point to make.

It just so happens that I believe it’s important to do something pointless whenever one is trying not to make a point at all.

Oh, and by the way, if WordPress really wants me to contribute a post to their platform today, they better cough up $5 million dollars to my favorite charity—ME! Talk is cheap, but writing cheap talk with real words is gonna cost me a lot of gray matter.

Also, I’m basically skipping out on today’s post because I think WordPress has been unfair to me of late. They’re always changing their platform around, thus making it more difficult for me to write nonsense like this, which has no bearing on the Presidential campaign, I might add—but I never subtract.

However, if they apologize, I might reconsider coming back and writing something more absurd than this.

So instead of showing up to do a post on WordPress, I’m just gonna go down to the Vets office. See, I want the veterinarian to donate to MY cause as well—the shots for my dog are costing me a mint!

Now I’ve not heard any of my rival blogger’s calling me a bimbo or anything like that. Or that I don’t write real good, or that I don’t make any sense—besides, my writing never makes any cents because I’m a poor sap writing at WordPress. However, I’m sure they’ll be lots of name calling after they get a load of this bull.

All I do know is, I’m the best unpaid writer at my blog, and I’m nobody’s apprentice!

Furthermore, I won’t resort to name calling of any kind—I’ll leave that to ‘The Donald.’ I can’t resort to name calling anyway, I don’t know anyone by name down at WordPress.

And as for any reader out there who might feel offended by my blathering on here? Well, all I’m going to say is; I’ll likely get more views and comments than any of you today.

Why you ask?

Because you’re all gonna be so ticked off at me when I tell you; I only wrote all of this crazy, shocking, controversial stuff as a way of drawing attention to my blog and myself.

You see, I don’t have weird hair like Donald Trump. That’s why I wrote a strange post, in order to stand out from the rest of today’s posts.

How else am I going to get attention if I’m not going to take this blogging thing seriously.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All The Good Subjects To Write About Were Gone

Nothing gets people talking, like what this blog talked about all week long. Nothing. As you probably noticed, no one said nothing about it either, and that’s nothing new. The problem was; I had nothing left to write about, all the good subjects were taken by other blogger’s.

I fear I’ll have nothing to write about for weeks.

Writer’s block can leave you with plenty of nothing to write about. There is nothing more terrifying for a writer to write about, than nothing. Particularly, when everyone else is writing about something. In fact, the only writing I did this last week, was when I wrote comments on other people’s blogs.

Writing comments on subjects other people have already written about is a lot easier, let me tell ya.

Brain-block is a terrible thing, especially when you take up writing a blog. Occasionally, followers come looking for something to read. Its not like when you wrote in some personal journal or a diary. Particularly one that didn’t belong to you.

In those cases no one cares except you, the snoopy mom, the dopey sister, or the ruthless dumb blackmailer who kidnapped your boss in hopes of extorting money from you, or he’d dump your boss in the river—which you let happen, because you didn’t get that Christmas bonus you were counting on.

But a blog…

A blog can open windows, telling you all about people and their personal lives—which is often better than eavesdropping on them. Or about their pets—and possibly more than you ever wanted to know about their personal lives…especially their sex lives.

Blogger’s also write poetry, good and bad… and much worse than bad—”See Rex, see Rex run, see Rex run for fun. Run Rex, run, run, run.” Some blogs, are by unpublished authors talking about books they’re going to write—and never finish…or get published.

Then, they’re the blogs about traveling to places—you can’t afford to go see. Comics—by people with more talent than you; hobbies and crafts—again, by people with more talent than you; Photography—by photographers more gifted than you; and movies and television—by people with more money than you!

Then there’s me—the blogger with no post. Because, they’re no subjects left worth writing about.

Oh sure, the blogging community left me a few boring subjects I considered toying with. But, they’re the rejects. Subjects, that no other blogger would dare touch with a 12 inch keyboard. Riveting material that could lead to post titles like:

“Aunt Hester’s gall-stone surgery and her sister, Bertha’s, bunions.” How’s that for a Stephen King wanna-be’s poorly written horror novel post? “My work”—good for two or three words, maybe a complete sentence!

Or, I could write about, “Sleeping Habits of the Sandman deprived Narcoleptic.” Oh here’s a good one,  “Small Talk and the Weather…conversation starters that won’t get you noticed.” And finally, “How Facebook allowed—Big Jim Martin, my next door neighbor—into last nights nightmare.”

No…I think the good subjects are all gone folks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Christmas Carol—No, Not The Dickens One

Schmoesknow.com

Schmoesknow.com

There had never been a more miserly man than John Q. Consumer—better known as, GOUGED. He adopted his nickname for he felt Christmas was no more than another excuse for retailers to pick a man’s pocket.

“Season of giving? Bah, humbug!” he was often heard to say.

His abrasive personality and manner of being were forged out of his disdain for the holiday—and for not spending money in general.

Every year—starting around June—he found himself being bombarded with Christmas deals offering holiday sales on everything—from cars to… EVEN MORE CARS!

Oh sure, advertisers still offered the cheaply made goods as well—those that would fall apart after only three or four uses, but GOUGED, had discovered something more devious.

Retailers marking goods up in price in advance of the holidays only to reduce prices back down to their original OVERPRICED amount just in time for Christmas holiday shopping.

Naturally, GOUGED, became as bitter as the cold that accompanied the festive holiday season.

Finding items failed to work after he got them home, he was further frustrated by having to go back and stand in long lines to get his money back. Many times, only to be told of the retailers no return policy.

He felt preyed upon by the mercantile for his hard earned… MINIMUM WAGE.

During the holiday season the “Ladies and gentleman of charity” could be found standing by their little red kettles in front of the many retailers places of business.

They would ask him to contribute to those in need of common necessities. Hoping, that he might be willing to give to the less fortunate, and thus offering provisions for the poor and destitute—of which he felt he was one.

Being part of what was formerly known as, The Middle Class, his answer was always the same. “Bah, humbug.”

Though, no one ever had the slightest clue what that meant, they figured as long as the old fool cracked loose with some cold hard cash—preferably tens and twenties—let the old geezer babble and speak all the gibberish he wants.

For the record; Bah, humbug actually translated into, “Hey, when are you dummies going to start contributing to my needs?”

So this Christmas Eve, GOUGED, decided things were going to be different.

He launched into a tirade, asking his detractors why there weren’t more unionized workhouses in operation that paid a living wage to their workers?

Why bankers never considered lowering interest rates? Why unemployment offices never honestly tried to provide for those in debtors prison—better known as credit card holders?

“Right.” they would reply, “Well, you see sir, there are many unscrupulous employers, banking institutions, and corporations operating and each is corrupt as all get out.

They’re always wanting to pay less while raking in more. Bankers are always raising interest rates constantly trying to remain highly profitable. All this comes at the expense of the suckers… uh… we mean the labourer’s and shopper’s.”

TheDailyBeast.com

TheDailyBeast.com

“And why do they do this?” GOUGED asked. “I’ll tell you why. They want to ‘decrease the surplus population’ that’s why! Then you’ll only have the wealthy to fill your little red kettles at this time of the year.”

They were all too aware of how the tightfisted wealthy seldom did that.

His rant had caught them off guard. GOUGED sounded inexplicably like he was from the United Kingdom, but they knew him to be American?

Realizing his slip of the tongue, as he had recently become an Anglophile—no doubt because he had seen far too many remakes of A Christmas Carol—he decided to pause for effect.

Then—now in broken American English—he continued his rant.

“Employers don’t like having to pay health benefits for what is left of their overworked, underpaid employees. So, in order to increase their hefty profit margin—and still reluctantly pay the health care cost—they slash the wages of the laborer’s who helped make them that tidy profit.”

Oh, it should be noted, that many a labourer hadn’t seen a cost of living increase, in about fifteen years.

GOUGED, further knew that those who lost their jobs would likely find themselves navigating a never ending call tree over the phone with the unemployment office.

Those few who did manage to get through, would likely be dismissed as unwilling to work. And this was because they were going to be paid far less than what an illegal alien (immigrant, or is that an emigrant) could possibly scrape by on.

The “Ladies and gentleman of charity” warned, GOUGED, that the merchants might be angry if they ever heard his views on the state of the economy.

May even hire some peasant to go plaster his car windshield (LITERALLY), with thousands of flyers in an attempt to promote one of their sales.

“Bah, humbug!” he shouted at them, and off he went into the bitterly cold winter night seeking out his car in a poorly lit parking lot, only to uncover its windshield—WITH A CHISEL AND A SCRAPER!

GOUGED, finally arrived home close to midnight. Sitting down to a cup of Campbell’s Beef and Barley soup, someone came crashing through his front door. It was one, Jacob Marley, his former used car salesman, who had only recently lost his job at the local Carfax dealership.

Hubpages.com

Hubpages.com

Hardly a ghost, but a shell of a human-being all the same, GOUGED, didn’t feel this excused Marley’s driving through his front door—WHILE INTOXICATED!

It made for a very uncomfortable encounter.

“Take heed, GOUGED, Marley began, “for I have it on good authority—I think it was a guy down in front of Macy’s ringing some sleigh bells—that you have forged in life a chain of debt, far less than that of my own!”

GOUGED, cowered over his checkbook—surrogate to his empty bank account.

“Beware GOUGED” Marley intoned, “beware, for you will soon be visited by The 3 Spirits of Madison Avenue over the course of the next 72 to 96 hours. “Beware!” he warbled.

Then he faded from view—handcuffed in the back seat of a squad car as he was taken off to jail for a DUI.

GOUGED, thinking Marley a man given to drink and suffering from the DT’s, decided to ignore the whole incident.

But, not before he called his State Farm Insurance agent about the damage to his front door.

His agent, wearing Khaki’s at the time and sitting at his desk at 1:00 AM in the morning, was waiting for the call—not that any of that is important to the story.

Nevertheless, a few hours later the first spirit of Madison Avenue appeared.

“GOUGED!” it bellowed from the glimmering light of the television screen.

“Who is it?” asked GOUGED, grabbing his 12 gauge shotgun.

“I am the ghost of Black Fridays past.” replied the voice from the TV. The spirit now floated through another disrupted cable signal (which GOUGED paid through the nose for on a monthly basis) and into his living room.

Fearsome indeed was she. Battered of face with clothing torn asunder, the ghost was the full embodiment of a Black Friday shopper. A real live Walking Dead zombie! She implored GOUGED—screaming at the top of her lungs…

“Remember… anything for the deal, anything for the deal!”

The thirty second million dollar spot—paid for by advertisers—was over. The spirit vanished, but not before GOUGED had emptied his 12 gauge shotgun into his flat-screen television in a blind panic.

“Now I’m going to need a new Samsung 110 inch TV for Christmas.” he frustratingly thought to himself—a sad price to pay for being a gun-toting ARA member.

Now, left with only being able to watch YouTube on his desktop, he gradually nodded off to sleep again.

24 hours passed, when suddenly a voice echoed from the monitor in front of him. “GOUGED” the voice asked searchingly, “are you there?” He sought refuge under his pegged together IKEA desk.

“I am the ghost of Small Business Saturday.” it continued. GOUGED,  recognized the voice.

“Bob, Bob Cratchet? Is that you?” GOUGED asked.

Bob was the owner of The Rug Emporium just down the street. Always going out of business for one reason or another, Bob would somehow always reopen a month or so later—usually with a relative taking over as the new owner.

However, old Mr. Fizziwig recently bought him out, or so Bob claimed.

“You have never seen the likes of me, have you GOUGED? For you’ve never shopped locally on Small Business Saturday, have you? In fact, you never shop at all, do you, GOUGED?” asked, Bob.

GOUGED replied “True. In fact, I can’t see you now either, but I recently WINDOW SHOPPED your former stor! Which I believe is now under new management by old man Fizziwig, is it not?”

“Window shopping doesn’t count, GOUGED. Ignorance and want, that’s what counts these days. But, I tell you what, my son Tiny Tim (who stood 25 stone), has bought the store back from old man Fizziwig, and he’ll make you a right fine deal on some new Persian rugs. Whad’ya say?”

GOUGED, thought for a moment and replied…

“Okay… I promise to buy some rugs—NOT! Look, I’m going to need a new computer monitor more than those stupid rugs. See, my monitor is shot!” (and another bang rang out)

And with that, GOUGED, was out of ammo.

Another 24 hours went by. Soon, GOUGED (who practically overdosed on sleeping pills), heard a buzz on his cell phone. He picked it up and clicked on the smart phone only to be met with a reminder that the third spirit would soon arrive.

The ghost of Cyber Monday.

“Am I in the presence of the ghost of Cyber Monday yet to come?” asked, GOUGED?

His smart phone beeped in the affirmative. “Oh spirit” GOUGED continued, “I fear you most of all. For I am technologically challenged and do not have a PayPal account. Should I Google how to get one?”

The phone beeped and an image appeared. It was the photo of an H&R Block followed by the words…

“Spend…or else!”

GOUGED thought for a moment, and then asked, “Or else…what?” Another beep, and a picture of Tiny Tim’s Rug Emporium appeared with the words “Closing, everything must go. Going out of business!”

Columbiaclosings.com

Columbiaclosings.com

Gouged asked…

“Spirit, are these the shadowy signs of what might be, or what has actually happened? Because, Cratchet is always claiming he’s going out of business.”

The phone beeped once again and the screen on his phone read…

“GOUGED, I fear if you do not start spending money—LOT’S AND LOT’S OF MONEY, then Tiny Tim’s Rug Emporium will be no more. I even surmise a visit from the IRS might be in order.”

“No not an audit!” cried GOUGED.

“Please spirit, I promise I’ll exhaust my savings (all two cents worth), I’ll even spend money I don’t have, max out my credit cards, get a lone from the bank—well at least exhaust my savings, spend money I don’t have, and max out all my credit cards.”

“Can’t do much about the bank loan thing though…banks don’t loan money anymore. But, I swear on my former used car salesman’s liver that I’ll do the rest!”

The phone beeps stopped. GOUGED, figured he’d better sell out to the spirit of Cyber Monday—but FAST!

“Hey… I don’t mind being gouged for the money, honest I don’t!” he screamed, “I promise, I’ll do all the other stuff just like I said. Just please… don’t send the IRS to my door to conduct an audit. I can’t afford a law firm!”

GOUGED, dropped to his hands and knees—and reached under his bed for an an old shoe box full of receipts—just in case. Then he rushed outside and practically drove over a jaywalker carrying a small turkey to get to the closest ATM and withdraw his savings.

GOUGED, proved to be better than his word. He gave all his cash until the little red kettles swelled with money. He bought Persian rugs, just like he promised he would, and from Tiny Tim’s Carpet Emporium.

Of course… he eventually was arrested and put in prison for embezzling funds, writing bad checks, and committing grand larceny.

But, he kept Tiny Tim’s Rug Emporium from going out of business. Plus, he kept Tim out of debt, all while keeping the Rug Emporium flush with cash.

After all, isn’t that what the true spirit of Christmas is all about? The spirit of giving—until it hurts?

(Soon to be a Major Motion Picture from some big name studio starring—my… quarter brother—Tom Hanks)

 

 

 

 

Well This Is It—Time To Say Goodbye

sun

It’s been fun. But you know, it’s always sad when we have to say goodbye… except when it’s goodbye to pollution, terrorist, and bad writers. I wonder why that is?

Anyway, I wanted to say what a pleasure it has been doing this blog for all of you. I always tried to give you a good belly laugh. Remember that one, and what a belly laugh it was? At least a few of you got it. As for the rest of you, sorry about the dysentery.

But, here I am, writing to all of you one last time to let you know that the world is coming to an end tonight and that this will probably be my last post and testament.

The religious communities have been talking about it for months. I did my best to ignore it in hopes that the rumors of our demise were untrue. But, sadly, my wife went out and emptied our bank account, so the world must be ending.

She did it so that we could eat out in style one last time at McDonalds. Thanks to the value meals we’ll be going out with change to spare.

Ominously, all of this coincides with the arrival of a ‘Blood Moon’ signaling the end of the world as we know it. And let me tell you, this time the end of the world is going to be much worse than the last time the world ended.

Remember the end of the world the last time? What a huge disappointment that one was?

But, I think this end of the world is really going to make up for the last one. This time the end of the world comes during a lunar eclipse of a ‘Blood Moon’ and that simultaneously corresponds with a supermoon!

(It was here that the sound of crickets then filled the air. Chirp chirp… chirp chirp).

And no, I wasn’t at the gathering where when dreamed this one up—but it must be true. Do you know that some of the faithful are actually running out to grab all the food they can get just so they can survive the long haul?

Maybe they’re the other faithful… the ones that think god might not be on their side?

And since NASA say’s that this unusual eclipse is going to be visible to North America, Europe, and Africa I’m pretty sure most of us are gonna be pushing up daisies by Monday morning. With so many bogus prophets saying this is gospel, how can they go wrong?

I wonder how all of this managed to escape the Pope’s notice?  popeFrancisSerious_large

Anyway, months of fruitful work of setting up, planning, and securing a theme for my blog have all been wasted.

Not to mention finding my voice and then purchasing a distinct comedy style of writing from another internet site that deals in that sort of thing.

And all for a modest fee—their words not mine.

The site guaranteed that their list of 500 comedy styling’s was completely original. I haven’t quite been able to to confirm that one yet, as they haven’t returned any of my emails or phone calls.

And to think I endured all those WordPress changes. And all for what? Just so we can meet our maker?

108269469They say he’s this hotshot big wig guy out of Detroit, or if you will as someone else once said, a big pink pixie in the sky.

But either way, I don’t care if he is dressed in pink, and flying first class. and carrying a wand of destruction.

Because, as far as I’m concerned, this only proves what I’ve been saying all along; that the TSA is not doing their job! I mean, letting a guy like that get on a commercial flight to nowhere. What were they thinking?

So, I thought I should say goodbye to you all now, before the NFL Sunday Ticket starts. God knows I won’t have time later.

I’ll be too busy collecting my winnings, because I paid some guy to tell me what teams are going to win in every game this week.

I even got this etched in stone, stone cold lock of the week—for free!

So, buh bye… for now.

All About What’s Going On Up There!

mind-reading

You know, every once in awhile I’ll get a comment or two from people. Oh yeah… but that’s the price you pay for only having ‘the happiest most IMPOSSIBLE to find blog on the entire internet.’ And, one or two folks have even gone so far as to tell me that they love my poetry—which I find strangely odd—since I don’t write poetry.

However, I do confess that at one time, I did consider having the EASIEST to find blog on the entire internet. But, then it occurred to me that Vito and Vinnie might find me. So, I’ve since reconsidered that idea, and I’m going to continue lying low for a while longer. Sorry boy’s, thank Mario for the nice offer, but I don’t think I’d like sleeping with the fishy’s.

Anyway, recently a woman named, Helen—from New Jersey—after having read my blog, asked me this question, “What goes on in that mind of yours, is there any possibility of you donating your brain to science—perhaps while your still alive?”

Touched as I was by her desire to learn the INGENUOUS way in which my mind works, I felt that I had to remind her that a GENIUS has so much more to offer the world without donating my mind to science while I’m still alive. There will be plenty of time to do that… long after I’m dead.

Helen, who is from some place called, Princeton replied; “Don’t kid yourself BROTHER.”

Helen, dear lady, I don’t think I have a sister in New Jersey, but I do think there is an easy way to find out if we’re related.

We need only to have your blood drawn to test and see if you are from the AMA. It’s a great way to find out if you’ve ever belonged to the American Medical Association. It’s better than messing with the DNA, and then we’ll know if we’re a match.

But personally, I’m pretty sure I’ve never worked for the AMA. So, I seriously doubt if we can relate to each other.

Still, some folks have pressed me for more details about what goes on up inside my head—and let me just say; those waterboard sessions were the worst! Yes, I’ve even told readers that they could read what’s “In My Cluttered Attic” to find out what’s going on up there, but I guess they wanted a second by second account.

And so, for the very first time in—In My Cluttered Attic’s—history, I am going to give you—my reader’s— a chance to experience the wonder that is… my brain. Hold on tight now…this could get a little intense, but please, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Alright, here we go…

………..Okay…….I’m getting an image now……..Yes……….I’m seeing a cheese steak sandwich……..but I can’t eat it yet…………..DARN!…………. because it’s only in my mind………………………but boy does that sound good right now!……………….. SEX!……………..But, I better wait for lunch……………….. SEX!…………………But, I’m hungry now!………………….SEX!………………Wait a minute!………………I gotta tinkle…………………….I’ll be right back………………………………………oh my wife is going to kill me………….because I left the toilet seat up again!……………. …………………..SEX!…………..Oh wait!……..I have another thought coming in……………………………………………..never mind……………..it’s gone…………………..oh……. Oh………OH wait………..SEX!………..Woohoo!…………………lost it there for a moment………sorry…………..is it lunch yet?……………..Oh for crying out loud………………SEX!……………….Now focus stupid………….stop and concentrate…………………..on SEX!………………….oh, for the love of………SEX!……………stop and think about…………………….SEX!………………Gee whiz……………..I mean, I know that being a man means we think about………SEX!………… a lot…………….but every seven seconds?……….Come on!……….. SEX………………..no wonder it takes me so long to do a post!………SEX!………Oh this is terrible this is!……SEX!!!  4433318601_80d12e0efb

How To Have A Successful Unpaid Career In Writing

index writer

5876 embryoWhen I was just a young embryo first starting out in life I knew exactly who, and what I wanted to be… Bill Gates. But, since that embryo had already been taken, I settled on becoming an embryo with a burning desire to write instead.

I knew right from the start, being a writer was for everyone! I mean, look at how many unpaid writer’s there are out there—and that’s just on WordPress alone! Many of them writing by day, some by night, others by candlelight—paying utility bills is a luxury bloggers can’t afford.

But, when you decide on a career as an unpaid writer, like I did… you expect to starve.

Yet I knew, if I stood out from all the other writers already out there… that would eventually mean I would have to start making me some money. So, when my career as a counterfeiter eventually ended… I went to prison. There, another writer and I decided to split the rent and share a cell together.

We wrote on the walls a lot in those days.

I guess none of it was worth publishing though, as no one ever came knocking on our cell with a cash advance. In time, we went our separate ways, he through a drain pipe, and I over the wall. But, those years we spent together writing graffiti… prepared me for the rejection slips to come.

I honed my skill at rejection by sending many of my writings to one place after another. Sometimes they were threats to the police, blackmail notes to the very very wealthy, and dirty lust filled letters to Zooey Deschanel. Each one came back stamped with the same familiar refrain… “REJECTED!”  zooey-deschanel-6169-6356-hd-wallpapers

Undaunted, I continued to send the same lust filled letters I had once sent to Zooey, but this time to the police. Finally, instead of receiving rejection slips, I was received slips stamped…”AMUSING.” The size large women’s slips were often autographed. I knew Olga (my old prison guard) wouldn’t forget me.

Now, having been sexually aroused, I began writing for Playboy Magazine. They never bought anything from me, but I never stopped writing to them, in hopes of becoming an unpaid published staff writer. In fact, I nearly gave up the whole idea of writing for a possible career in photography, thanks to (LOOKING at), uh… I mean… reading Playboy.

But, photographing men wasn’t my cup of tea. I mean… Playboy?

I was then asked to consider taking up journalism, but my heart was still set on being a writer. I finally settled on the style of writer I wanted to be, that of a humorist. I even wrote former humor columnist, Dave Berry, and told him that if he could be considered a humorist, then anybody could.

Dave Berry-Writer and Humorist

Dave Berry-Writer and Humorist

He replied to my letter saying that his attorneys would be in contact with me concerning slander. I was genuinely touched by his kind gesture. And, I’m sure at some point they would have gotten around to mentioning some six or seven figure number to me. But, I didn’t want to work for some rag writing untruths.

So, here I am, the successfully gifted unpaid semi-professional writer you see before you today, blogging on WordPress for nothing. Yep, I’m living the dream. I can hear you all now, “But Paul, your readers don’t pay for it.”

And there you’d be wrong my friends.

Oh they’re paying for it—every time they happen to read anything I post on this blog.